


Love, Unexpected

by Igerna



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-05-20 23:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14904588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Igerna/pseuds/Igerna
Summary: Serena Campbell and Bernie Wolfe meet at a conference and forge a friendship which will change both their lives.  Sometimes, love blossoms in the most unexpected of places.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been an absurdly long time in the making. I first had the idea more than a year ago and it was originally meant to be a one-shot or a short multi-chapter, but it grew rather exponentially, resulting in by far the longest piece I've ever written. 
> 
> My thanks, as ever, to the fabulous @ddagent for the huge amounts of work she's put in to making this coherent and ensuring I use the proper quantity of semi colons ;)

Serena gently retracts the incision and peers into the abdominal cavity. “There,” she says, gesturing toward the offending appendage. “As suspected, it’s extremely inflamed.” She stands back, allowing Morven to take a closer look at Mr Johnson’s appendix. “He’s lucky he doesn’t have peritonitis. So, Dr Digby, how would you go about removing our patient’s appendix?” Serena listens carefully as Morven gives a thorough account of the stages of the procedure; satisfying herself that, in theory at least, the younger doctor knows what she is doing. “Excellent. How do you feel about having a go?”

Morven’s face betrays a combination of excitement and horror. “Are you sure, Ms Campbell?”

Serena gives her a warm smile. “Of course, you’ve earned it. Besides, never make a surgeon of you if you don’t do any surgery, will we?”

The heavy door of the operating theatre swings open to admit Fletch, mask held to his face, not fully scrubbed in. “Hanssen’s office has been on the phone. He wants you to go up at once.”

“Did you tell him I’m in the middle of an operation?” 

“I did.”

Serena sighs. “Thank you Fletch. Can you ask Raf to scrub in and supervise Dr Digby please?” She exits the theatre; pulling off her mask and gown before making her way, scrub cap in hand, up the stairs to Hanssen’s office. 

She knocks lightly, not bothering to wait for a reply and is surprised to see not one, but two occupants inside. “Ric, I wasn’t expecting you.” She crosses the floor and takes the vacant seat next to Ric on one side of Hanssen’s desk. “So, Henrik, what was so urgent you had to pull me away from supervising our most promising F1 in performing her first appendectomy?” 

“Mr Griffin here has presented me with something of a dilemma, Ms Campbell.” He turns to Ric. “Would you care to explain?”

“Jess phoned me this morning. They’re headed to New York for a few weeks for a business trip. But they’re breaking the journey here, for five days.”

Serena regards Ric with suspicion. “This is the emergency for which I was called out of theatre? Ric’s holiday plans. I don’t see how it affects me.”

“Ah,” Henrik continues. “Now, you may remember that several months ago Mr Griffin persuaded the Board to fund his trip to the Association of General Surgeons’ conference in Newcastle.”

Serena does recall. The conference had been eye-wateringly expensive. Austerity has yet to reach the board of the Association of General Surgeons. She nods. 

Henrik continues. “You might not, however, recall that the conference in question is due to take place this weekend.” 

Now Serena understands. “And to avoid wasting large sums of NHS money you would like me to take Ric’s place?”

“Precisely.” 

“But if Ric was due to go to the conference, surely I’m needed to cover AAU?” Serena has no particular desire to go to the Association of General Surgeons’ conference. They're a bunch of dinosaurs. 

“Happily, no.” Henrik is almost smiling. “As it’s a bank holiday weekend, and you had already booked the weekend off, I arranged for locum cover, so you’re free to attend.”

“And what if I don’t want to attend?” Serena’s vision of a quiet Spring bank holiday weekend drinking Shiraz in her garden is fast disappearing. “I can’t go at such short notice, Henrik, I have Jason.”

“I thought Jason was away at a chess tournament this weekend?” Ric’s interjection earns him a glare from Serena; he smiles back benignly. 

“Excellent, that’s all arranged.” Hanssen glances at his watch. “I’m sure you need to be getting back to AAU, Ms Campbell.”

Serena leaves, Hanssen’s dismissal ringing in her ears. 

***

“Look on the bright side,” Raf advises, as they repair an aortic aneurysm later that afternoon. “The conference might be dull, but it's three days in a hotel, posh gala dinner, free wine…”

Serena lets out a short bark of laughter. “You haven't been to a conference recently, have you Mr Di Lucca?”

“I don't follow.”

“If past experience is anything to go by, the hotel will be overheated and noisy, the food will be bland and lukewarm, and the less said about the wine the better.” She pauses to inspect her handiwork. “And to top it all off, I've got to get the train because my blasted car is in the garage. Five hours, trapped and at the mercy of CrossCountry trains.”

Raf’s face contorts into a sympathetic expression. “You could always fly.”

Serena snorts. “And endure one of Jason’s lectures on my carbon footprint? Not likely. No, the train it is.”

“You might meet some interesting people. You love networking,” Raf suggests.

Serena gives him her most withering stare. “Now I know you haven't been to any conferences recently, yet alone one hosted by the Association of General Surgeons. It'll be the old boys club out in force: three days of lewd jokes and questions about why I didn't go into General Practice. No, there's more chance of Henrik Hanssen joining an ABBA tribute band than there is of meeting someone interesting at the AGS conference.” 

***  
Bernie closes the front door behind her and steps into the brilliant spring sunshine. She pops open the boot of the MX-5 and deposits her suitcase and laptop bag in the boot. Once in the driver’s seat she sets up the sat nav, connects her phone to the car’s stereo and revs the engine. As the car’s tyres crunch over the gravel and onto the street, Bernie breathes a sigh of relief. _Escape. Blessed escape_. 

Two months of residence in the same house is stretching relations in the Wolfe-Dunn household to breaking point. It’s not that she doesn't enjoy the company of her husband, she reasons as she navigates a roundabout and takes the exit signposted towards the M32. But years of prolonged absences on her part seem to have left them uncertain as to how to live together. Marcus and the kids have their lives in Holby and she isn't sure where she fits. It's unfair of her to mind, she supposes; after all, she's the one whose career takes her away so much. But she sometimes feels she's intruding, particularly with Marcus and Cam. Marcus was always Cameron’s favourite. Charlotte was her mother’s daughter, but even Lottie is distant at the moment, though whether that's anything more significant than the newfound freedom of university life Bernie can't tell. 

All in all, she’s really quite glad to have an excuse to get out of the house and escape for a bit. Even the prospect of a five-hour drive to Newcastle doesn't dampen her spirits. A well-maintained motorway on a beautiful sunny day isn't exactly taxing; certainly not compared with traversing the IED strewn dirt tracks that pass for roads in Afghanistan. The time passes quickly as she speeds up the M5, and skirts around Birmingham to join the M1. She stops for lunch and to stretch her legs. She’s going to arrive rather earlier than strictly necessary, she realises, given that the conference doesn’t start until the following afternoon, but no matter. It will give her a chance to relax, order room service, work on her presentation for tomorrow. 

It’s a little after three when Bernie pulls the Mazda into a parking space outside the hotel. She checks in, refusing the offer of a porter to assist her in carrying her luggage, and makes her way up to the second floor. Her room is pleasingly light and airy, with a large desk overlooking a window. She sets down her case and extracts her laptop with the intention of getting stuck into her presentation, but finds her mind wandering; she feels restless after the long drive. Bernie glances at her watch: 4pm. She needs to do quite a lot of work that evening, but she still has plenty of time. She quickly sheds her jeans and t-shirt, exchanging them for running gear and trainers, with the intention of stretching her legs on the streets of Newcastle. 

By the time she reaches the hotel foyer however, her plan is looking distinctly less appealing. Rain is splattering the glass doors in large droplets and the sky, which earlier had been a brilliant blue adorned with fluffy white clouds, is now dark and forbidding. _Never mind,_ she thinks. The hotel definitely has a gym somewhere. 

Somewhere turns out to be the basement. The gym is small but adequately equipped. It is also blissfully empty, allowing Bernie complete freedom in her choice of equipment, and peace and quiet in which to use it. After an hour spent working off her restlessness, Bernie’s muscles are tired but her brain is energised and she makes her way back to the lift, filled with renewed determination to perfect the presentation scheduled for tomorrow. 

At the ground floor, the doors of the lift slide open and a woman enters, accompanied by one of the hotel porters. She’s about her own age, Bernie guesses, smartly dressed with dark hair cropped short. The woman nods at Bernie as their eyes meet, and then she smiles, warm and beguiling. Bernie feels a jolt of something that’s a lot like recognition but isn't, because Bernie’s positive she's never seen the other woman before in her life. The stranger’s gaze flicks over Bernie, almost as though appraising her, Bernie thinks. And Bernie suddenly feels absurdly self-conscious, wishing that she wasn’t red faced and sweaty from an hour's hard work out, or at least that her exercise attire consisted of the smart Lycra leggings and vests favoured by her younger colleagues, rather than a t-shirt she’s probably owned since her first tour of Iraq. _Don’t be absurd,_ she tells herself. _It’s perfectly obvious you’ve been exercising. In any case, what does it matter what she thinks of you? Even if she’s attending the conference, it’s hardly likely you’ll ever see her again after this weekend._

***

Serena shifts in her seat as she waits for the afternoon session to start. Thus far, the weekend is proving every bit as trying as she had imagined. Her journey had been painful: long, hot and stuffy, courtesy of an overcrowded train which, due to signal failure, had spent an hour stationary just outside Birmingham New Street. Her laptop battery had died and, inexplicably, there had been no phone signal, leaving her with only a bad paperback novel left by a previous passenger for entertainment. This morning’s session had done nothing to reassure her that her attendance was a good use either of her time or the hospital’s money; the papers a dull mix of the irrelevant and the uninspiring. 

Still, she supposes it’s best to look on the bright side. The hotel itself is nice and her room is quiet and spacious. She’d rather enjoyed ordering room service and being able to watch whatever she wanted on Netflix, rather than Jason’s preferred quiz shows and documentaries. And this afternoon’s session, on traumatic injury, looks far more promising than the preceding one. There was one paper in particular which had caught her eye. She examines her programme again. Yes, that was it: _‘Surgical treatment of traumatic crush injuries to the abdomen.’ Author: Major B Wolfe._ Serena has had relatively little opportunity to perform trauma related surgery, but she’s enjoyed what she has done: it's certainly more exciting than repairing a strangulated hernia. She watches as the panel files in: three men and a tall woman around her own age with blonde hair. Serena wonders idly which one of them is Major Wolfe and plumps for the man of around 40 with short greying hair. 

But the man in question turns out to be the author of the first paper, a worthy but extremely dull review of previously published studies about blood loss. Serena is positive it is a valuable contribution to science, but she can’t bring herself to get excited by platelets. The subject matter isn’t enhanced by the presentation, which is as uninteresting as it is lengthy. _Really,_ Serena thinks, _you shouldn’t be allowed to present at conferences without some kind of training in public speaking. And surely putting the text of your presentation on your slides verbatim and then reading them out word for word should be punishable by some kind of primitive torture._

At long last, the convenor thanks the speaker for his contribution and calls for questions from the floor, of which there are mercifully few. He turns to introduce the second paper, which is the one on crush injuries and Serena is pleasantly surprised to find that Major Wolfe, officer in the Royal Army Medical Corps, is the tall blonde. Serena studies the woman carefully as she rises to her feet, organising her notes. She realises with a start that it’s the same woman she encountered in the lift the day before, the one who'd been to the gym, though she's rather more formally attired now of course. Yesterday, she'd been struck by the woman’s athletic figure and the eyes, bright from exercise. Now she notices the strong cheekbones, the pronounced nose, the artfully messy blonde hair. _She really is very attractive._

She speaks well too: clear, carefully structured and entertaining. The paper is fascinating and Serena finds herself itching for the opportunity to study it thoroughly and try some of the techniques discussed. 

As Major Wolfe draws her presentation to a close, Serena indicates her desire to ask a question, then taps her foot impatiently as the three people before her reveal that the listeners had either not been paying attention to the paper, or had a very poor grasp of some extremely basic science. Serena listens, impressed, as Major Wolfe manages to respond to these with a great deal more patience and grace than she thinks she would have managed in the same situation. 

When the convenor calls on Serena, Major Wolfe turns to look at her and Serena finds herself staring into huge, expressive brown eyes. She is momentarily distracted, and then realises, embarrassed, that they are waiting for her. She stumbles a little as she outlines her query, but Major Wolfe gives her a whisper of a smile, fixes her with an intense gaze and thanks Serena for asking such a pertinent and thought provoking question. Serena could swear she hears a hint of emphasis on the word ‘pertinent’. The surgeon’s response is succinct and eloquent and Serena rather wishes she had the opportunity to reply, but the convenor has moved on to the next participant before she can interject. 

Serena spends much of the third speaker’s presentation pondering the army medic. She’s disappointed that she had been unable to continue their discussion because it really was a very interesting paper. But beyond that, the surgeon intrigues her: there is a sense of melancholy about Major Wolfe and Serena wonders what’s behind it. She’s not sure why, but she feels an inexplicable sense of connection to the other woman and she’s positive that she wants to meet her properly.

***  
The hotel bar is busy when Bernie enters on Friday evening. She orders herself a whisky and then casts around for somewhere to sit, her eyes eventually falling on an empty table in a tucked away corner. She takes her seat and sips her drink slowly, enjoying the solitude, for all she is in the middle of a noisy bar. There is precious little opportunity to be alone in the army. And at home, there always seems to be someone around, even with Lottie away at university. 

She leans back in her chair, eyes closed, contemplating the conference so far. Her own paper had gone well, though the remainder of her panel had been tedious in the extreme. She had enjoyed her brief exchange with the dark haired woman from the lift: Cooper? No, Campbell, that was it. It's still a comparative rarity to see another woman at these events, at least another woman of her own seniority and experience. 

“I enjoyed your presentation very much.”

Bernie opens her eyes, startled, to register the presence of the very brunette surgeon she had just been contemplating. She is looking down at Bernie with the most engaging smile Bernie has ever seen, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. 

“Ms Campbell. How very nice to see you again.” 

“May I join you?” the brunette asks, brandishing the bottle of wine. 

“By all means, especially as you appear to be armed.” 

“Serena Campbell,” the other woman says, setting the bottle and the glasses down on the table and extending a hand. 

Bernie grasps the hand. “I remember. Berenice Wolfe, but please, call me Bernie.” Serena’s handshake is warm and firm. 

“I hope Shiraz is acceptable,” Serena says, sliding into the seat opposite her. 

“Shiraz is more than acceptable, especially as you're buying,” Bernie replies, accepting the glass which the brunette slides across the table towards her. She takes an appreciative sip. “This is much better than I'm accustomed to.”

“Oh dear, the quality of refreshments in the officers’ mess clearly leaves much to be desired. The funding crisis in the armed forces must be even worse than the NHS.”

Bernie chuckles “I wouldn't know, to be honest. Not much recent experience in the officers’ mess: I spend most of my time in a tent in the desert.”

“Then you definitely deserve more wine,” Serena says, her expression grave but her eyes bright. “I found your paper very enlightening,” she adds, after a pause. 

“Thank you. It was nice to know that at least one member of the audience had managed to both listen all the way through and understand it.”

Serena smiles at her. “Happy to oblige.”

“So, is your interest in trauma surgery purely academic or does it have practical application?”

“A bit of both really,” Serena replies. “I’m a vascular specialist, but I lead our Acute Admissions Ward and we’re beginning to see more trauma cases brought in to us.”

They talk about surgery and their respective specialities. About the trauma cases that Serena sees on her ward and about the vascular complications Bernie experiences in the field. 

“Where do you work?” Bernie asks eventually. 

“Holby City.”

Bernie stares at her. “What a strange coincidence. I’m based in Holby. Well, my family are: I’m not home very much.”

“How very odd that we’ve never met before.”

Bernie shrugs. “I'm away a lot.”

“I suppose you would be,” Serena responds. “It must be tough, being away from home so much- being away from your family?”

Bernie sips at her wine before answering. “It can be,” she says slowly. “Certainly, it was hard being away from my children when they were younger. But I enjoy my work very much. And they’re adults now, so I don't suppose I'd see a great deal of them even if we were living in the same house all the time.”

Serena laughs at that. “Too true. My daughter only ever seems to contact me when she's in need of money. Which actually means phone calls are remarkably frequent!”

“How old is she- your daughter?”

“Elinor will be twenty one in September. And I have a nephew, Jason, who lives with me too.” Serena replies. “What about yours?”

“Cameron’s twenty four; Charlotte’s twenty.” 

“University?” 

Bernie nods. “Charlotte’s just finished her first year of English at Oxford. Cam was at medical school, but he decided it wasn't for him. Dropped out in his final year.” She tries hard to keep her voice neutral as she recounts this, attempts not to betray how very disappointed she is in Cam’s decision. 

She’s clearly not as good an actress as she hopes because Serena fixes her with a penetrating gaze. “It's the hardest part, isn't it? Accepting that they have to choose their own course. Make their own mistakes. Edward was desperate for Ellie to study medicine, which frankly would have been a disaster. She'd make an appalling doctor. French suits her much better.”

“Edward’s your husband?”

“Very much ex-husband, fortunately.” Serena replies darkly. “Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d best not share with you my own rather cynical views of the institution,” Serena says with a twinkling smile. “Another medic?” 

“How did you guess?”

“Who else do we meet? Well, soldiers, I suppose, in your case!” 

Bernie smiles slightly at her humour. “I'm afraid I very much conform to type: Marcus is an orthopaedic surgeon.”

“Marcus Dunn?” Serena asks. “St James’?”

Bernie nods. “Small world.” 

“It is that.” Serena pours the remainder of the bottle into their respective glasses. “Shall I get us another?”

“Better not. I was up till all hours working on that presentation. I need an early night.” 

“And here was I thinking organisation and advanced planning were essential skills for military personnel,” Serena teases.

Bernie gives her a wry grin. “I'm afraid my organisational skills are strictly ‘on duty’ only.” 

“Well, we can't all be perfect,” Serena grins back. 

Bernie feels the warmth of Serena’s smile suffuse her. She likes Serena Campbell very much: she's good company. She rather thinks she might like to know her better. Bernie drains her glass and rises to her feet. “Goodnight Serena.”

“Goodnight.”  
***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to ddagent for invaluable advice (and the punctuation improvements...)

Bernie is sitting in the lecture theatre for the first session on Saturday, perusing the abstracts in the conference pack, when somebody slips into the chair beside her. 

“Here” Serena says, handing her a coffee. 

Bernie stares at it in bewilderment. “Thanks.” She stares at the logo on the cup. “This isn’t from the hotel.”

“No,” Serena agrees. “I had quite enough of what purported to be coffee here yesterday. There’s a Starbucks two doors down, so I nipped out to fortify us for the ordeal ahead. What have we got this morning, exactly?”

They fall into conversation about the morning’s session, debating the merits of the abstracts and commenting about what they know of the participants’ research. Serena is easy to talk to, Bernie finds. It’s unusual for her to feel relaxed so quickly in the company of someone new. But, she reasons, they have a significant amount in common: same age, same profession, children of similar ages. It isn’t surprising that they get on well. 

Good company she might be, but Serena turns out to be a terrible conference partner. Fifteen minutes into the first paper of the session, Serena begins to get restless. Bernie can't really blame her; it’s appallingly dull and the speaker far too fond of the sound of his own voice. But the consequence is that Bernie is treated to Serena’s acerbic commentary on the paper, each remark more barbed than the rest. Bernie has to work hard to keep a straight face and increasingly finds her attention wandering from the content of the session. 

“I barely took in a word of that,” Bernie chastises at the end of the last paper. 

“I know; I'm a dreadful influence.” Serena agrees with a wicked grin. “But it really was interminably dull. Where are you headed next?” 

The second session of the morning has several streams running in parallel: two clinical and the other administrative. Serena is booked to attend the latter. 

“Perils of being management,” Serena says sagely as she gathers her possessions. “Must dash: see you at lunch?” 

Bernie nods; her eyes following Serena as she makes her way across the room, pausing to greet an acquaintance along the way. Bernie finds herself a touch envious of Serena's social ease. She is so clearly at home in this environment; quite content to work her way through a room full of people. Bernie has always disliked the networking element of conference attendance. She watches as Serena exits the lecture theatre, then returns her attention to the conference programme. 

***  
At lunchtime, Serena finds Bernie ensconced in a corner with a copy of _The Lancet <\i> and a plate piled high with food from the buffet. _

__

“To the victor, the spoils,” Serena quips, as she sets her own, rather meagre lunch down on the table. “Did you hold up the buffet queue at rifle point?” 

Bernie laughs and it's the most peculiar laugh Serena has ever heard: loud and ridiculous, with a distinct similarity to a honking goose. But it's genuine and unaffected and Serena warms at having elicited such mirth from the reserved army medic. 

“Decades of institutional catering have taught me to always be first in the queue,” Bernie replies, her tone solemn but her eyes still dancing. “And the RAMC is non combatant. Feel free to steal some food; I wouldn't want you fainting on me.” Bernie nudges her plate towards Serena. 

“Thanks. My session overran and there's not much food left.” She takes a sandwich and a piece of quiche from Bernie’s plate. “So, how were the ‘recent developments in resuscitation’?” Serena asks, as they tuck into their food.

“Interesting. Limited practical application in the field, but useful knowledge all the same. What about you? Did you manage to keep your eyes open for, what was it ‘the application of costing models to the NHS under austerity’?”

“I did. And actually, it was rather fascinating. The author’s done lots of work on the application of costing models in the US healthcare system, which I’d read before. He takes an interesting approach.”

Bernie is staring at Serena as though she's sprouted an additional head. 

“Sorry,” Serena says unrepentantly. “I know it's not everyone’s cup of tea, but I rather enjoy it.” 

“Each to their own,” Bernie agrees. “I’d hazard a guess you wouldn't fancy a seminar on military logistics.”

“I suspect I’d struggle to make head or tail of it.”

“Oh I doubt that very much.”

Serena blushes at the compliment and returns to her lunch. “I understand you’re going to this dinner tonight,” she asks after several minutes’ silent eating. 

“Yes.” Bernie’s tone is unenthusiastic to say the least. 

“Not your idea of a good evening, I take it?” Serena asks sympathetically. 

“Not really.” 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve done a little bit of rearranging with the seating plan,” Serena confides. “Only I had a quick peek earlier and I appear to have been placed next to the most suffocatingly boring man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet and I’m not entirely sure I’ll survive several hours in his company. So I’m afraid he’s been exchanged with you.”

Bernie stares at her with an odd mix of gratitude and bewilderment. “Well I won’t argue with that. It’ll be nice to sit next to a familiar face. But how did you manage it?”

“Oh, I have my ways,” Serena says enigmatically. “Shall I meet you in reception and we’ll go together?” 

***  
At 7.15, Bernie enters the hotel reception to find Serena already waiting for her. 

“You look nice.” 

Bernie looks down at her dress. “Thank you. So do you.” It’s true. Serena really does look lovely, with carefully applied makeup and co-ordinated accessories. Bernie feels rather scruffy and unfinished by comparison. “I never know what to wear for these things,” she confides. 

“I rather assumed the army would be full of formal occasions.”

“Oh it is, but then I can just wear dress uniform and be done with it!”

They enter the hotel’s ballroom, each accepting a glass of champagne from the proffered tray. Serena leads Bernie to their table, where they find a number of people already seated. She and Serena introduce themselves and then Bernie sits back and sips her wine, watching as her new friend charms the remainder of the guests. 

The food is passable: better than expected really for an event of this size. But the wine is flowing freely and the company is excellent. Serena, it transpires, may be a terrible conference attendee, but she is the perfect person to sit next to at the conference dinner: warm, witty and terrifically good fun. She’s also an incorrigible flirt, particularly as the evening progresses and her alcohol consumption increases. 

Bernie can see that Serena’s flirtatiousness isn't with any particular intent: it's simply how she relates to people. But several of their male fellow diners aren't quite so astute and by the time they get to the port, Serena has rebuffed three separate admirers. She can't blame them really. Serena is attractive, clever and charming. If Bernie were a man she’d probably be falling at her feet too. 

As the servers clear away the last of the plates, music signals the start of the dancing. Bernie groans inwardly.

“Dancing not your cup of tea?” Serena is clearly amused by Bernie’s obvious distaste. 

“Not really.”

“Well I shan't force you,” Serena promises. “But I do reserve the right to attempt to persuade you.” She grins and pours them both another glass of port. Bernie is about to protest that she has probably drunk enough when they are interrupted. 

“Hello Serena.”

The speaker is a tall man, around Bernie and Serena’s age, with thinning ginger hair and rather prominent ears. 

“Stephen!” Serena rises from her seat to greet the newcomer, kissing him on the cheek. “Bernie, this is Stephen Matthews, neuro consultant at- is it still Barts?” The man nods. “Stephen and I were at medical school together. Stephen, this is Major Berenice Wolfe, Royal Amy Medical Corps.”

Serena is looking at Bernie and so misses the rise of Stephen’s eyebrow when Serena introduces her. Bernie feels a surge of irritation but resolves to be pleasant to an old friend of Serena's; schooling her features into neutrality, she extends a hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you Stephen.”

He takes her hand and shakes it briefly. “You too.” He turns to Serena. “I was wondering if you'd like to dance?”

“Oh, go on then. You don't mind do you Bernie?”

She shakes her head. “Of course not.”

Stephen leads Serena onto the dance floor and after watching for a few seconds, Bernie falls into conversation with another of the surgeons at their table. 

Some minutes later, Bernie is out of small talk and excuses herself to head to the bar. Her path takes her past the dance floor and her eyes stray over the dancers in search of Serena and Stephen. She watches in astonishment as she sees Stephen’s hand slides downwards from its position on Serena's waist to cup her arse; Serena catching him firmly by the wrist and returning the hand to its original position. Astonishment soon turns to irritation as she watches him repeat the advance with the same response and then disgust as he makes the attempt a third time. Without stopping to consider her actions, she crosses the floor to stand next to them; fixing Stephen with her best ‘Major Wolfe’ glare. 

“I think she's made it quite clear that your attentions are unwelcome.”

Stephen’s face morphs into a sneer and he opens his mouth to retort something, but then seemingly thinks better of it and strides off towards the bar. Bernie turns to Serena. “Are you ok?” 

Serena looks torn between anger and embarrassment. “I'm fine, thank you.” She gives Bernie a weak smile. “But I think I might call it a night. Do you want to join me? I've got a bottle of Shiraz in my room.”

***  
Together they exit the ballroom and walk in silence up the two flights of stairs to Serena’s room. “This is me,” she says, fumbling in her clutch for her key card. She switches on the lights as she enters, kicking off her shoes and sinking her toes into the carpet.

“Take a seat.” Serena gestures at the sofa and Bernie does as directed. Serena extracts the bottle from the depths of her suitcase and finds two glasses. “Fortunately, this is a screw cap.” 

“You came prepared.”

“One should never find oneself without wine,” Serena agrees with a wink, curling up on the other end of the sofa. 

Bernie picks up the bottle and peers at the label. “Another Australian Shiraz: do you have shares in a vineyard out there or something?”

“Oh wouldn't that be fun! Sadly not. Just a healthy appetite for the stuff I'm afraid.” She pours a generous measure into each glass. “Cheers- and thank you for earlier.” 

“You're welcome; though I'm sure you could have extricated yourself from the situation perfectly well without my assistance.”

“I’m sure I could, but I appreciate your consideration all the same.”

As Serena says this she realises that it's true: she does appreciate Bernie’s solicitousness. Quite why, she isn't sure: if a male acquaintance had attempted to rescue her in a similar situation, they'd likely have received a lecture on the misguidedness of their chivalry for their trouble. Perhaps it's because she knows that from Bernie, the interference is not motivated by a sense of possession or jealousy. It's a simple gesture of friendship; a desire to assist her in absenting herself from an unpleasant situation. 

They sip their wine silently. It's a comfortable, familiar sort of quiet and for some minutes neither feels compelled to speak. 

Serena is the first to break the silence. “So are you headed back to Afghanistan after this?” 

“Eventually. Home to Holby for a bit. I've got a couple of weeks leave: Marcus and I have a holiday booked-”

“Oh lucky you.” 

“Then back to Kabul in early July.”

Serena regards Bernie with curiosity. “What's it like?” She asks eventually.

“Sorry?”

“Being on tour. What’s it like?” 

Bernie is silent for a long time.

“I'm sorry,” Serena says, “that was crass. I'm a bit drunk I think.”

“No, it's ok. It’s…” Bernie looks around as though searching physically for the right words. “It’s challenging,” she says finally. “Medically and emotionally.” She continues. “It’s immensely rewarding and I'm very good at what I do, but it's demanding work. I often operate under conditions that are a long way from ideal: limited facilities; sometimes under enemy fire. The kind of injuries I deal with in the field- the ramifications of bullet wounds and explosions- they're messy and they often have devastating consequences. We save lives an awful lot of the time, but there are often scars: these are life changing injuries and apart from that, mental health issues are very common. And ultimately, your patients, the people you’re treating, are your colleagues. You sat next to them last week during dinner, or they showed you a photograph of their daughter in her school play. You get very good at compartmentalising.” Bernie gives Serena a wry smile. 

“I could do with a lesson or two in that at the moment.” Serena takes a large gulp of wine. 

Bernie turns her head slightly, giving Serena an inquiring look.

“There's a young doctor at Holby, Arthur. He was diagnosed with a malignant melanoma a couple of months ago. He has secondaries in his lungs, in his stomach. He’s surrounded by brilliant medics, but there's nothing any of us can do. He's dying.” She drains her glass. 

Serena's left hand is lying on the sofa between them. Bernie lays her own over it. “I'm sorry.” 

Serena nods. “You must see so much death, so much suffering, every day. How do you keep going in the face of that?”

“Because the alternative is worse.” Bernie takes a large gulp of her wine. “The alternative is to stop caring.” 

Bernie’s hand is still laying over Serena's own. Serena turns hers over, lacing their fingers together. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for listening,” Bernie replies. “It's not something I really talk about.”

Serena’s next question is out of her mouth almost before she can stop herself. “Not even to Marcus?”

Bernie shakes her head slightly and Serena knows it's been a push too far. She can't help but wonder though, about her new friend’s marriage. Bernie is very reticent on the subject of her husband and it's hard to avoid the conclusion that they are not entirely happy. Still, Serena reasons, Bernie’s career, her long periods of absence with the RAMC, would place any relationship under considerable strain. It’s hardly something to be surprised by. 

She pours more wine into both glasses and turns the conversation back towards medicine, telling Bernie the stories of some of her more entertaining patients. Bernie responds in kind and the atmosphere relaxes back into easy camaraderie. 

***  
Bernie wakes the following morning to the worst hangover she has experienced in ten years. It had been late when she’d stumbled from Serena’s room to her own. She’d intended to go to bed at a reasonable hour but had somehow found herself unable to resist the temptation to stay on the sofa with Serena. At some point they'd progressed from wine to whisky. That, she concludes, had definitely been a mistake. 

She registers the frantically bleeping mobile on the bedside table, and realises that she has managed to sleep long enough to actually need an alarm (a seldom visited occurrence). She swipes at the phone in a bid to silence its piercing shriek and sees a message notification. Serena.

_My head! Breakfast at 8.30? S xx <\i>_

__

__

She taps out a quick response and wills herself out of bed. Rummaging in her hold-all, she extracts two paracetamol and swallows them dry, before turning on the shower. 

The shower at least serves the purpose of reassuring her that she doesn’t smell like a brewery and by the time she enters the hotel dining room. the paracetamol are beginning to kick in and return her to something approaching functional. Bernie spies Serena at a table by the window, cup in hand andd head bent over the newspaper. She looks up as Bernie approaches and flashes her a mischievous smile. 

“You’re very bright eyed and bushy tailed,” Bernie observes as she takes the seat next to her friend. 

“A patented combination of drugs and cosmetics,” Serena responds dryly. “You, on the other hand, look a little green around the gills.”

“Nothing a full English won’t cure.”

Serena shudders. “Each to their own. I can’t manage all that grease when I’m already feeling queasy.”

They order food and chat about their plans for the forthcoming week; Serena watching in amusement as Bernie ploughs through a fried breakfast while she picks at a pain-au-chocolat. After breakfast, they make their way back to the conference hall for the morning’s session: a plenary round table followed by the keynote lecture, delivered by a renowned transplant specialist. It’s interesting enough, but rather academic from Bernie’s perspective. She appreciates the scientific significance of the speaker’s work, but organ transplantation is as far from her own clinical practice as it’s possible to get. It’s planned, controlled, and risk managed; the very opposite of Bernie’s surgical experiences in the field. 

“Lunch?” Bernie suggests as they leave the conference hall at the end of the lecture. “There’s a pub down the road that looks fairly decent.”

“I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't.” Serena looks genuinely regretful. “I’ve really got to get going. It's a long trip back to Holby and I’ve got to get back to Jason.”

“Oh.” Bernie tries to keep the disappointment from her voice. She can’t quite see why Serena would need to return home urgently to her adult nephew. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Serena adds, as though she knows exactly what Bernie had been thinking. “Jason has Asperger’s Syndrome. He's wonderful and I wouldn't be without him but he’s been away this weekend and, well- I ought to get home.” She pauses. “You will keep in touch, won’t you?” Serena asks, and for the first time Bernie detects a note of uncertainty, as though Serena isn't sure that that’s something Bernie would want. 

“Of course.” Bernie surprises herself slightly with the vehemence of her response and is rewarded with a broad smile from Serena, who promptly digs through her bag and extracts a business card. 

“You've got my mobile number obviously, but my email and whatnot is on there.”

“I'll text you mine,” Bernie promises. 

They stand there for a moment and it's in danger of becoming a bit awkward, but Serena suddenly launches herself at Bernie and envelops her in a warm hug. “Bye Bernie, stay safe won't you,” she murmurs into Bernie’s ear. Then she brushes a kiss to Bernie’s cheek, gives her a wave and vanishes. 

Bernie watches Serena leave, and feels a burst of affection towards her. The conference may not have been particularly enlightening from a medical perspective, but she has at least made a friend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as ever to @ddagent punctuation fixing and Marcus bashing

Bernie stands in front of the open cupboard, frowning. The drive back from Newcastle had been plagued by traffic and she hadn't arrived home until nearly 9pm on Sunday evening. Now Bernie’s at home she’s in desperate need of a cup of tea but can’t for the life of her find the teabags. Not the current, ‘in use’ tea bags, she can find those perfectly fine. Or rather, she can find the empty caddy that usually holds the tea bags, in its customary position on the kitchen work surface next to the kettle. No, what she is looking for is the box of teabags from which to refill the caddy and she can’t find those anywhere. The problem is compounded by the fact that she isn’t actually positive that they even have a spare box of tea bags: it’s quite possible that they've run out. But she’s irritated that she doesn't know where the box would be if there is one. 

She looks around the kitchen with a general sense of dissatisfaction. She doesn't like the house if she's being honest, doesn't feel at home here. She’d tried to express this view to Marcus on her last leave, but he’d been so hurt at the idea that she wasn't overjoyed to be living in his childhood home that she’d backed down almost immediately. He'd pointed out, rather more forcefully than necessary she’d thought at the time, that it wasn't as if she was there very much. It was true enough, she supposes, but it would still be nice to feel at home when she is at home. She simply doesn't here, in this vast Victorian pile that had once belonged to Marcus’ parents. It’s a nice enough house objectively: quiet road, plenty of space, a lovely garden. But it doesn’t feel as though it is theirs. Especially when she can't find the teabags. 

She hears the front door open and close again, the thud of shoes being removed and the general rustling that indicates the removal of coat and setting down of bag, followed by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall towards her.

“Hi Bern.” Marcus crosses the kitchen and leans in to kiss her on the cheek. “How was the conference?”

“Good, well, fine. Do we have teabags?”

“Sorry?”

“Do we have teabags; I can't find any anywhere.”

Marcus moves to the far corner; opens a cupboard and reaches up to the highest shelf, pulling down a box and tossing it to her. “Couldn't make me one while you're at it, could you?”

Bernie switches the kettle back on and sets out an extra mug. “Good shift?”

“Long. Idiot drunk driver with a complex fracture.” 

“Ouch.” She pours water onto the teabags, stirs and removes them again, before adding milk to both cups and half a teaspoon of sugar to Marcus’. 

“So tell me about the conference,” Marcus says as they sit down at the kitchen table. 

“My paper was fine, seemed to be well received: a couple of journal editors approached me about publication so that's promising.”

Marcus nods.

“Aside from that, it wasn't particularly enlightening from a medical perspective.” Bernie sets her mug down on the table. “Do you know Serena Campbell?”

“Deputy CEO at Holby? I've met her in passing. Was she there?”

Bernie nods. “She was at my paper and came to talk to me in the bar afterwards. We sat together at the dinner last night. I like her.”

Marcus shrugs. “I don't know her well enough to have an opinion.” He rises to his feet. “I need a shower and then bed. I'm shattered. Are you coming up?”

“In a minute. I'll just finish this.”

Bernie watches Marcus and his mug of tea retreat from the kitchen to the hallway before sighing, a vague feeling of dissatisfaction settling upon her. Was that it? She thinks. Absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder, but for her and Marcus absence seems to be a yawning chasm that stretches ever wider. She'd only got back from Afghanistan ten days ago, of which they'd spent three at opposite ends of the country. Shouldn't they be able to find more to say to one another than three or four perfunctory sentences? _It's hard_ she reminds herself. Hard to sustain a relationship at such a distance, especially when communications were as unreliable as they were in Kabul. _This is why the holiday is a good idea. Time together, just the two of you. Time to relax and reconnect._ She pours the dregs of her tea down the sink and adds her mug to the dirty crockery already stacked in the dishwasher, before climbing the stairs to join Marcus. 

When she reaches their bedroom the bedside lamp is lit but Marcus is already asleep, sprawled out across the bed leaving little space for Bernie. She stands for a minute in the doorway, watching Marcus’ steady breathing. But despite the long drive and the lateness of the hour, Bernie suddenly feels wide awake. _A run,_ she thinks. _I need a run to clear my head and tire my body after all those hours in the car._ She crosses to the wardrobe, extracts her running gear and slips into the bathroom to change. Turning off the light, she slips quietly out of the house, leaving the sleeping Marcus behind.

***  
Serena sighs and pinches at the bridge of her nose as she waits for the barista to prepare her order. The conference had given her a great deal to think about- and meeting Bernie had been extremely enjoyable- but the travelling was exhausting and she wasn't particularly looking forward to a full week of work after a busy weekend. She'd arrived that morning to find AAU absurdly hectic. Three non-stop hours later, she is still up to her eyes in patients despite her best efforts. But she is also in desperate need of a breather and so she has nipped out to Pulses for a coffee. 

“Serena,” calls a voice from behind her in the queue. She turns to find Ric approaching. “How was the conference?” 

“What are you doing here?” Serena’s tone and expression are suspicious. “Shouldn't you be chasing a small child around a park?”

“They left for New York this morning.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Serena takes her latte gratefully. “Did you have a nice time?”

“I did. Thank you for stepping into the breach. How was the conference?”

“It was good. Much better than I anticipated. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about it. Have you got five minutes?” 

“By all means.” She waits until Ric has been served and then leads him over to a table and they sit; coffees on the table top between them. 

“I wanted to discuss the trauma facilities on AAU,” she begins without preamble. “There was a really interesting session on trauma medicine and with the strain on the ED and other factors we’re seeing more and more trauma cases in AAU. I think we need to give serious thought to our facilities and training.”

“I agree.”

“You do?” Serena looks up at him in shock; agreement between her and Ric being something of a rarity. 

“I do,” he nods. “You're right: we've seen a huge increase in the number of trauma patients through AAU in the last few months. We need to be better prepared to deal with them.”

“So, in principle, if I were to work up a proposal for the Board?”

“I’d be in full support,” Ric promises. 

“Thanks Ric. I'll have a chat with Henrik and draft something.” She checks her watch. “Better be getting back to AAU; it’s a madhouse down there today. Keller must seem so peaceful.”

Ric fixes her with a sceptical gaze. “You wouldn’t trade AAU for Keller for all the Shiraz in Albie’s.”

And he was right. She wouldn’t. Her assignment to AAU had been a punishment, but she had grown to love it. It was difficult, these days, to imagine working anywhere else. But she can’t deny the ward is becoming busier and harder to manage and the sheer volume of trauma patients is a significant factor in that. Serena is optimistic Henrik will see the sense of her proposal.

Three hours and a trip to the CEO’s office later however, Serena is feeling distinctly less buoyant.

“I think it's an entirely laudable aim, Ms Campbell,” Hanssen says, when she has outlined her proposal, “and you have my full support in theory: I agree dedicated trauma facilities would be an extremely valuable addition to AAU, and to this hospital.” He places his pencil on the desk, aligning it precisely next to his fountain pen. “But there's simply not enough money. I'm afraid that if you want to pursue this, you're going to have to source some external funding.” 

Serena sighs, thanks Henrik for his time, and leaves his office in a rather more sombre frame of mind than that in which she had entered it. Henrik’s response is not particularly surprising, but it is certainly disappointing. She has set her heart on overhauling AAU’s trauma facilities and it is not an idea she is ready to forgo willingly. Serena Campbell is not a woman to be deterred by such a small matter as an NHS funding crisis. All she needs is a plan. And she knows just the woman to help her. 

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Trauma advice  
Date: Wednesday 1st June 2016

Dear Bernie,

How are you? I hope you've recovered from the excesses of Saturday night! 

You’ll be pleased to hear I was listening to your diatribe on the paucity of trauma training and facilities within the NHS and have asked our CEO to support a dedicated trauma bay on AAU. Of course in today’s cash strapped times there is no money to pay for it, but I’m putting together a funding bid. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to cast your eye over it before submission, would you? 

By the way, did you see the article in last week’s Lancet about abdominal trauma? It's much more your area than mine of course, but the central thesis seemed quite improbable to me.

Best wishes,

Serena

***  
From: Bernie Wolfe  
To: Serena Campbell  
Subject: Re: Trauma advice  
Date: Thursday 2nd June 2016

Dear Serena,

It's lovely to hear from you. 

I’d be happy to look over the proposal. Send me a copy when you have a draft. Or we could have a chat over a drink if you prefer? I'm in Holby until 18th June, then off to Greece for a fortnight with Marcus before I head out to Kabul on 4th July. 

That article was dreadful. I'm genuinely baffled as to how they got it published. 

Regards,

Bernie

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Re: Re: Trauma advice  
Date: Wednesday 8th June 2016

Dear Bernie,

I'm sorry to take so long to reply to you. We lost Arthur yesterday: the young doctor I told you about. It’s hit everyone very hard. 

A drink would be lovely if we can manage it. I could do with something to look forward to. How about the 15th? It's highly unlikely I'll manage to put together a proposal by then, but perhaps we could talk things through? It's a good excuse to share a bottle of wine at any rate! 

I imagine you're looking forward to your holiday. I confess I'm rather envious: the ward is extremely hectic at the moment. A holiday sounds very appealing. Still, Ellie and I have a week in Italy at the end of August, so I’m looking forward to that. 

Best wishes, 

Serena 

***  
From: Bernie Wolfe  
To: Serena Campbell  
Subject: Sorry  
Date: Tuesday 14th June 2016

Dear Serena, 

I'm terribly sorry but I'm going to have to cancel tomorrow. Marcus has just told me he's arranged a meal with the kids tomorrow evening: they're both coming home especially. I'm so very sorry to let you down, but it’ll be my last chance to see them before I head out to Kabul; I'm only back from Greece for a couple of days before I fly out again and Cam and Lottie are both busy then. 

Can you email me the draft proposal and I'll read it and give you my thoughts?

I really am sorry I've had to cancel. I was looking forward to it. We’ll have to arrange something next time I'm in Holby. 

Regards,

Bernie 

***

Serena shuts the front door behind her, discards her coat and bag on the chair in the hall and kicks off her shoes. Jason will chastise her later for their disorderly placement on the floor, but right now she can't bring herself to care. It's been a long day, draining both physically and emotionally.

She makes her way wearily to the kitchen and contemplates the wine rack in the dim evening light. _Sod it; it's been a hell of a day. Now is precisely the time to break out the decent wine._ She uncorks it, sits down at the table, pours herself a large glass, and takes a large sip.

It had been a horrible day. Bad enough that there had to be a funeral at all without half the congregation having to abandon ship mid way through. And then the chaos of the train crash. They had coped, after a fashion, but it only served to highlight how desperately they needed improved trauma facilities and protocols. 

Serena tries to stop the tears but they come anyway. She sobs loudly: great, noisy heartfelt, sobs of grief and anger and exhaustion. Her heart aches for Morven, for Dominic, for herself. 

“Auntie Serena?”

Serena starts, nearly spilling the dark red liquid over the pristine table. “Jason. Sorry, I didn't hear you come down the stairs.” She swipes furiously at her eyes. 

“Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“I, er-”

Jason switches on the light, temporarily dazzling her. “Have you been crying?” 

She nods. “Yes.”

“Is it because of Arthur?” 

She nods again. 

“When my Mum died, Alan said she'd gone to a better place. But I'm not sure I believe in that. I think that when you're dead you’re just dead. What do you think?”

Serena takes another sip of her wine. “I think I agree with you Jason.” 

“Alan also said it's ok to cry when someone dies. It shows that we loved them and we missed them. I think I do agree with that.” 

“Perhaps you're right.”

“Would you like a hug? My mum always said hugs made her feel better when she was sad.” Jason’s expression is grave as he makes this offer. 

“I’d like that very much, Jason.”

He hugs her with only a trace of awkwardness. “I think I’m going to go to bed now. Goodnight Auntie Serena.”

“Goodnight Jason.” He retreats upstairs and she drains the rest of her Shiraz with a large gulp. As she is pouring herself a second glass, her phone buzzes on the table in front of her. 

_Hope today went ok. Thinking of you, Bernie_

Serena smiles. How thoughtful of Bernie to remember the date and check on her, especially when she’s on holiday. She really is proving to be a wonderful friend. 

***  
Two weeks after after her aborted drink with Serena, Bernie finds herself poolside on a sun lounger under the scorching heat of Greece in late June. They are nearly at the end of their holiday, and Bernie has been bored to tears since the second day.

Marcus seems to be content to spend the holiday interspersing snoozing by the pool with the occasional swim and ploughing his way through a stack of mediocre crime novels. But Bernie is restless. This isn't her kind of holiday at all. She is absolutely hopeless at sitting around being idle. She needs to be doing something: sightseeing; some kind of activity; anything really as long as it engages her brain or her body. Marcus had booked the holiday while she had still been out in Afghanistan. He'd presented it to her as a surprise when she'd returned from tour. A holiday for the two of them before her next deployment: no kids and no distractions; relaxation before she was plunged back into the bustle of army life. He had expected her to be thrilled with it, but he’d booked the kind of holiday he wanted- a week of lazing around doing very little- and hadn’t stopped to consider whether she would like it too. _Does he really know me so little?_ Bernie wonders briefly. But then again, how would he know? It’s been a long time since they’d had a holiday just the two of them. And Marcus has been working hard too. He deserves some relaxation as much as she does.

She watches as a family, parents and two little boys of perhaps 6 and 3, play in the pool. The father is chasing the older of the children under the water and the boy is surfacing periodically to shriek with delight. Bernie smiles, reminded of holidays with her own children when they were young. 

She rather wishes Cameron and Charlotte were with them now. Charlotte would have happily joined her in exploring the old town nearby and Cam would have been keen to try one of the diving courses run by the resort. Marcus has been reluctant about diving, understandable given his asthma, but Bernie can't quite see why he’s been so unenthusiastic about her taking part. 

She picks up the novel that is resting on the table beside her and reads several pages before tossing it down again in disgust. Marcus’ sister had recommended it as an undemanding holiday read. She had described it as a ‘page turning thriller’. Well, Bernie is certainly turning the pages quickly; though in a fruitless search to find something worth reading rather than due to the gripping nature or the plot or the engrossing quality of the prose. 

From the depths of her bag, her phone beeps. She pulls it out. A text; not from Cam or Charlotte as she'd assumed (and hoped) but from Serena:

_Thanks for the feedback on the proposal. It's really helpful. I owe you a drink next time you're in Holby. Hope you're having a lovely holiday, Serena xx_

“Lottie?” Marcus peers at her over the top of PD James. 

“Hmm? Oh, no. Serena Campbell.”

“ _Again?_ What does she want now? Hasn't she taken up enough of our holiday?” 

Bernie bites back a retort. _Don't argue. Don't spoil the holiday._ “She was just thanking me for my input on the proposal.”

“As long as she isn't asking for any more help.”

“For god’s sake Marcus,” Bernie snaps. “I was happy to help. She's a friend.” 

“Friend?” Marcus drips scorn with every word. “You barely know her. And she interrupted our holiday.”

“She's a friend,” Bernie repeats, her fists balling at her sides. “And I don't see that it impacts on you in the slightest. It makes no difference to you whether I'm reading grant proposals or trashy novels.” She waves the offending paperback for emphasis. “For the record, the proposal was a far more interesting read.” 

Marcus stares at her, disgust and exasperation naked in his expression. Bernie waits, anger boiling; half hoping for him to retaliate. But he says nothing, simply returns his attention to his book. She breathes deeply for several minutes, willing away the tension, but with little result. She’ll take her swim, cool her body and calm her temper. Then afterwards they can have lunch, and perhaps enjoy what remains of their supposedly relaxing break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the absence of face to face Berena interaction: I promise it's necessary for the plot!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been an absolute bugger to write. It started life as two chapters, which was one too many, but the process of consolidating them has been painful. 
> 
> My eternal gratitude to @ddagent, the best writing partner gelato can buy, for her extraordinary patience in reading through seven (yes, really!) drafts of this and telling me how to structure it into something coherent. I love you dearly and I promise you never need to read it again!

Chapter Four

Serena wraps her jacket tightly around her as she makes her way from the car park to the entrance of the Wyvern Wing. It promises to be a beautiful July morning, the sky blue and crisp, but it is still very early and the air is chilly. 

She walks briskly through the hospital to AAU, waving hello to Lou who is just coming off shift, and makes her way to her office. She enters and lets out a soft groan at the sight of the detritus that covers her normally neat and ordered workspace. The mess is a product of yesterday's presentation to the board. She’d been called into an emergency surgery before she'd had a chance to tidy up and then more or less had to run to the board room for her presentation. By the time they'd finished it had been late and she'd completely forgotten about the disorder in her office. 

Serena hangs up her coat and bag and switches on the PC, before collecting the papers strewn across the desk into a tidy pile. On the top lies a copy of the email she had received from Bernie a week ago, complete with detailed commentary on Serena's trauma bay proposal; the proposal itself littered with suggestions for improvements, many of which Serena had found invaluable. 

All in all, Serena had been pleased by the proposal she had presented to the board. The argument for a trauma bay in AAU was sound. The recent train crash, while tragic, had only served to strengthen Serena’s hand: the chaotic response had demonstrated the need for a major trauma centre in the area. It would be expensive, yes, but she had put together a persuasive financial case and the grant she was seeking would cover a significant part of the costs. There would be savings too; not least a reduction in the number of patients needing transfer to other wards or hospitals, with the attendant knock on effect on beds and personnel. 

The door creaks and Serena looks up to find Hanssen standing in the doorway. 

“Can I help you Henrik?”

“Actually I was hoping I could help you, or at least convey the good news in person. The Board had a lengthy discussion after your presentation last night, and decided unanimously to support your proposal: if you get the grant, we will supply the additional funding you need.”

Serena breaks into a broad smile. “That's wonderful news, Henrik. Can you convey my thanks to the Board; I'm very grateful for their support.”

Hanssen inclines his head. “It’s an exciting proposition. Improved trauma facilities will be a benefit to the entire hospital.”

“My thoughts exactly; I'm glad you agree.”

“So now there is just the small matter of securing the grant. When is the deadline?”

“Friday. The application is ready; bar any feedback from the Board of course.” 

“Then it only remains for me to wish you good luck. It's an excellent proposal Ms Campbell. I think it would be of enormous benefit to the entire hospital.” 

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Bon Voyage  
Date: Friday 1st July 2016

Dear Bernie, 

Just thought I’d wish you bon voyage and let you know that the Board has approved the bid for the trauma bay. Thank you so much for all your feedback; it was absolutely invaluable. 

Safe travels to Kabul. 

Yours,

Serena

***  
From: Bernie Wolfe  
To: Serena Campbell  
Subject: Arrival  
Date: Monday 4th July 2016

Dear Serena, 

Well after what feels like days of travelling I finally arrived back in Kabul yesterday. It's mainly the same personnel who were with me on my last tour, so despite a couple of months at home, it feels rather like I've never been away. We celebrated my first night back with Scotch and poker. Poor Stevens’ nose is rather out of joint: apparently he's been trying very hard to improve his game but I could buy a couple of very nice bottles of Shiraz with what I collected from him last night! 

I'm so pleased the Board are backing the grant proposal. It's a fantastic project and you really deserve the funding. Fingers crossed the Bramwell Foundation agree. 

Best,

Bernie

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Re: Arrival  
Date: Tuesday 5th July 2016

Dear Bernie, 

Glad to hear you've arrived safely- and that your poker playing prowess is undiminished! I think I should be buying you the drinks though; I'm very grateful for all the help you gave me with the application, especially when you were supposed to be on holiday. Talking of the grant: I emailed the finished form today. I couldn't face another day of staring at the thing and wondering whether to tweak a sentence or not!

Yours,

Serena

***  
From: Bernie Wolfe  
To: Serena Campbell  
Subject: Favour  
Date: Thursday 7th July 2016

Dear Serena, 

Don’t be silly; I was delighted to help. But as you seem to think you owe me a favour, could you possibly email me a copy of the study on blood substitute products from this month’s Journal of Haematology? I can't access it out here for some reason. 

Best,

Bernie

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Re: Favour  
Date: Sunday 10th July 2016

Dear Bernie, 

Article attached. It's rather an interesting read. Certainly more interesting than the mountains of paperwork I had to wade through today for tomorrow’s board meeting. I finally finished at nearly nine and then Jason spent half an hour complaining that I’d missed Mary Beard. I need a glass of Shiraz! 

Oh god, listen to me. You don’t want to listen to me rambling on. Sorry. Hope everything’s ok out there. 

Yours,

Serena

***  
From: Bernie Wolfe  
To: Serena Campbell  
Subject: Re: Re: Favour  
Date: Tuesday 12th July 2016

Dear Serena, 

Don’t be daft. Feel free to ramble as much as you like. I rather like hearing about your day. It’s a welcome distraction from the heat stroke and infected mosquito bites, which have been the extent of my medical challenges since I arrived!

Best,

Bernie

***  
Her phone bleeps; the short tone signifying the receipt of an email. Serena sighs and picks it up from its position on the table. _Probably Henrik with a request for yet another report_. 

Her gaze switches from her phone to the empty wine glass on the table. The contents had disappeared remarkably quickly considering the size of the glass. But, she supposes, it had been a long day: three operations; a seemingly endless board meeting to discuss the hospital deficit; and dinner with Jason, who had taken the opportunity to better educate Serena about the life cycles of invertebrates. Serena loves her nephew dearly, but sometimes she rather longs for a time when, at the end of an exhausting day, she had been able to simply throw a ready meal in the microwave and eat it in front of something mindless.

But, glancing at her notifications, she sees the email isn’t from Henrik. It's from Bernie. Serena can't help smiling as she reads the message. She is glad of their growing closeness. It's nice to have a friend outside the hospital; someone with no interest in the internal politics of Holby City beyond their impact on Serena herself. That in the same person she has found someone who understands her present struggle to balance work and family is a double blessing. It isn't a conversation she could possibly have with Raf, for whom the absence of a family is a continuing source of pain; or Ric, whose five ex-wives are clear evidence of his abject failure to achieve any semblance of work-life balance. 

She does rather wish that Bernie weren't so far away though. It's an odd quirk of fate that led she and Bernie to meet at the other end of the country, when they reside in the same city; unfortunate that despite this, Bernie’s work means Serena won't see her for six months. Email is all very well but it's no substitute for sharing a drink or a meal; for conversation and laughter. Still, Bernie won't be in Afghanistan forever.

“Auntie Serena- are you joining me for Countdown, or not?” Jason’s voice, calling from the living room, has just the slightest edge of irritation. Serena knows that if she isn't sitting on the sofa within sixty seconds, he'll come and hunt her down. 

“I'm coming, Jason.” Serena picks up the bottle of Shiraz and pours herself a second glass. If she's going to do battle with Jason over the conundrum, she needs another drink. 

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Jason  
Date: Tuesday 19th July 2016

Dear Bernie, 

Jason came in today. He was with a girl: a young woman really. She’d fallen onto some railings and he said it was his fault, that she’d run away from him. For a few awful minutes I thought he might have done something terrible. And although he hadn't, I can't help but feel I’ve rather let him down. I should have talked to him about girlfriends really. 

And the worst of it is, when we had the phone call to say they were bringing her in, I was annoyed. I had a report to write for Hanssen that I hadn't finished, and I resented being taken away from it. As if a report matters when there are patients to care for. I feel as though I'm torn in too many directions: the Board, AAU, the trauma grant, Jason. I'm making a pig’s ear out of all of it at the moment.

Thanks for listening, Bernie. I really do appreciate having someone to talk to about this. 

Yours,

Serena

***  
From: Bernie Wolfe  
To: Serena Campbell  
Subject: Re: Jason  
Date: Thursday 21st July 2016

Dear Serena,

You're too hard on yourself. You can’t anticipate everything that may go wrong where children are concerned. And we all make mistakes there. 

As for the juggling act, well, I suppose you have to prioritise what's important to you. And if you want to give some aspect less attention, or give up something entirely, well- no one’s holding a gun to your head, are they? 

Best, 

Bernie

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Freedom!  
Date: Friday 22nd July 2016

Dear Bernie,

You know what? You're absolutely right. I love medicine, and I love my family- and they both deserve my precious time more than the Board of this bloody hospital. I've been to see Hanssen and resigned as Deputy CEO. 

Right- off to celebrate my freedom from the tyranny of the boardroom with a glass or three of Shiraz. 

Thank you Bernie; I wouldn't have had the courage to do it without your advice. How’s Charlotte enjoying her time in Italy, by the way?

Serena xx

***  
From: Bernie Wolfe  
To: Serena Campbell  
Subject: Re: Freedom!  
Date: Sunday 24th July 2016

Dear Serena, 

Well done you! I’m not sure I need thanking for my very small part in your decision, but if you insist, you can buy the drinks when I’m next home. 

I'm afraid I have no idea about Charlotte. I haven't heard from her in nearly two weeks, and even that was just a text saying ‘I’ve arrived and I'm fine’. Marcus thinks I'm worrying too much; that she's just too busy having a good time to worry about contacting her parents, but it's not like her, Serena. She usually texts me all the time; you can't prise her phone out of her hand usually. When she was travelling in her gap year, she was forever posting photos of all the places she was visiting. She's reading my messages, so I presume she's ok, but this silence is odd and it worries me. 

Best,

Bernie

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Re: Re: Freedom!  
Date: Tuesday 26th July 2016

Dear Bernie, 

I understand why you're worried about Charlotte, I really do. If it's that out of character for her, then I'm sure I'd feel the same in your situation. Unfortunately, it would be absolutely typical behaviour for Elinor, who is so selfish so much of the time I despair. She cancelled our holiday by the way: “something came up”. I don't think there's really anything you can do though, beyond reminding her that you're there and you love her. She’ll contact you when she’s ready. 

Yours,

Serena 

***  
Bernie wraps her hoodie around her more tightly, pulling the strings closed at the neck. Afghanistan in October is still warm during the day, but at night the temperature drops considerably; especially in the mountainous north east of the country where they are currently located. And especially when you’re sleeping in a tent. 

They’re spending two weeks at an encampment near Gambar; a small group of them on a humanitarian mission providing medical support at one of the country’s camps for internally displaced persons. There are local medics of course, and they do their best, but they’re poorly equipped and overwhelmed by the sheer number of people needing their assistance. 

She stands and stretches out her aching back. It’s been a very long day. A day which has been mainly filled with chest infections and leg ulcers and routine childhood vaccinations. It's very different from her usual surgery and teaching, and it's seldom medically challenging, but it is vital work and in that way it is rewarding. 

Bernie boots up her laptop and opens up her email. There is a request for donations from her College alumni association; clearly they know very little about army pay. One from Cameron: it's brief but at least he’s trying. Nothing from Charlotte. Or Marcus. She hasn't heard from her husband for a couple of weeks. Once upon a time, Marcus had been a frequent communicator while she was away: on her first trip he'd written her daily notes about his life at home with the kids. But as the years have gone by, the gaps between his emails have become longer and longer. She understands, she supposes: she's away so much that it's become routine. Marcus has become accustomed to her not being there; he doesn't miss her as he once did. _But would it kill him to send a quick note? Not chapter and verse on how he's spent every minute, but even: ‘Hi Bernie, hope you're ok. The F1s seem particularly incompetent this year’ would be nice._

She quickly types responses to the emails that need dealing with, and then taps out a brief line to Marcus to let him know she's ok. She hits ‘send’. Nothing. The emails remain in her Outbox. She tries again with the same result. Finally, she opens up her browser and tries to load the BBC. Nothing. 

“Alex?”

The brunette appears in the doorway to Bernie’s makeshift office. “Yes, Bern?”

Bernie winces at the over-familiar nick name. She really doesn't like ‘Bern’ as a diminutive, but tolerates Marcus’ use of it with only occasional complaint: after twenty five years of marriage he is entitled to bestow her with pet names. Her junior officers are not. Still, now is perhaps not the best time to pull rank. 

“Please tell me it's my laptop’s fault I have no internet access.” 

Alex shakes her head. “Sorry- satellite connection’s gone down.” Her eyes drift to the photograph on Bernie’s desk. It's a casual shot of Bernie, Marcus and the children, taken at Christmas a few years ago: Cameron and Charlotte in the middle, arms around one another, flanked by their parents, all of them laughing. It had been a happy day; a good memory. She can't remember the last time they’d all laughed together like that. “Trying to email the family?”

“Something like that.” Bernie doesn't bother asking how long the connection will be out. She knows from long experience that it's impossible to know. It could be a couple of hours, or it could be days. She shuts the lid of the laptop with a sigh. 

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Success  
Date: Saturday 1st October 2016

Dear Bernie, 

I had news from the Bramwell foundation today: I got the grant! They were very positive about the project. Thank you so much for all your feedback; I couldn't have done it without you. 

Now all I need to think about are the small matters of overseeing the building work, recruiting a trauma nurse, sourcing the equipment, and finding myself a trauma surgeon to coordinate the training and provide support in the initial stages…thank goodness I'm not deputy CEO any more, that's all I can say. 

Yours, 

Serena

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Are you ok?  
Date: Tuesday 11th October 2016

Dear Bernie,

Is everything ok? I haven't heard from you in a while? I know you're very busy, but if you get the chance, can you just let me know you're alright?

Serena 

***  
From: Bernie Wolfe  
To: Serena Campbell  
Subject: Re: Are you ok?  
Date: Thursday 13th October 2016

Dear Serena,

I am so, so sorry to take so long to reply. We lost internet connection ten days ago so we've been rather cut off. It's pretty common up here; it's quite remote and mountainous and communications aren't great. I am sorry not to have warned you about the possibility though: I didn't mean to worry you so much. 

Best,

Bernie 

***  
From: Serena Campbell  
To: Bernie Wolfe  
Subject: Re: Re: Are you Ok?  
Date: Friday 14th October 2016

Dear Bernie

I'll admit to feeling a great deal of relief after receiving an email from you. I don't mind admitting I was beginning to panic a bit. You'll laugh at this but at one point I even considered emailing Marcus to check if he'd heard from you. It was only the realisation that he'd think I was completely bonkers that stopped me! 

Plans for the trauma centre are progressing though we're a bit stuck in the search for a consultant. I contacted the two you suggested when we put the proposal together, but they're both busy with other things at the moment unfortunately. Back to the drawing board.

I finally got round to hunting down those papers about arterial grafts you were asking about. I've attached them (along with some notes of my own).

Yours,

Serena 

***  
From: Bernie Wolfe  
To: Serena Campbell  
Subject: Suggestion  
Date: Monday 17th October 2016

Dear Serena, 

Thanks for the reading material on arterial grafts- and for your practical pointers. It's a bit tricky to follow via written descriptions though; I might need to come and peer over your shoulder. 

On that note, I have a proposition to put to you. How would you feel about me assisting with setting up the trauma unit? I think I can probably persuade my CO that it would be beneficial for my skills. And on a personal note, it would be nice to have a bit of time at home. But I won't put myself forward unless you’re happy with the idea. I don't want to step on your toes. 

Best,

Bernie

***  
Bernie grins as she reads Serena’s extremely enthusiastic response to her suggestion that she consult on the Holby City trauma bay. She had been almost positive Serena would like the idea; so positive that she had already broached the subject with her CO, who had given his provisional agreement. She’s due a spell in the NHS anyway: she spends her working life mostly in the field, but periodically she needs time in a hospital setting to refresh her skills in routine procedures and keep up to date with the latest in equipment and techniques. The Holby City trauma bay is an added bonus: an opportunity to share her skills and expertise, and enhance her own management and leadership skills. That, at least, was how she had put it to Colonel Donaldson, whose response had been a raised eyebrow and the observation, uttered in a tone of deep scepticism, that it was a pleasant surprise to see Major Wolfe taking an interest in the non-surgical aspects of her professional development. Still, he had agreed to the proposition readily enough and Serena had apparently secured her CEO’s permission to approach Bernie. 

Marcus would be pleased. He had been delighted when Bernie had mentioned the prospect of spending three months at Holby; thrilled at the idea of having his wife at home, of having what he termed ‘normal family life’. Cameron and Charlotte had been enthusiastic too, and Bernie hopes that a period of more frequent contact, of inhabiting the same house as Lottie at least during the university vacation, might allow her to reconnect with her increasingly distant younger child. 

And she is very much looking forward to working with Serena. It’s been a long time since she'd formed such a close friendship. She has colleagues in the RAMC of course; people she works closely with; people who she would - and does- trust with her life. But they are comrades, rather than friends. And she and Marcus, well, they are friends she supposes. She loves him, of course she loves him; they’ve been married for twenty five years and raised two children together. Marcus is intelligent and kind hearted. But they are not particularly close. She isn't sure they ever have been. They don’t seem to have a great deal in common. Marcus’ life is one of routine surgery, golf with friends and football with his brother, interspersed with occasional weekend visits from Cameron and Charlotte. Her own is governed by military timetables; a heady mix of the adrenaline rush of trauma medicine and the camaraderie of active combat. She and Marcus don’t even really talk about medicine any more. She and Serena exchange stories of patients; discuss articles in journals and trade tales of recalcitrant juniors. But Marcus never shows any interest in her work, and never offers anything of his. Maybe a spell at home will improve things. 

Bernie closes down her email and shuts the lid of her laptop, smiling as she does so. Two more months, she thinks, and she'll be back in Holby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, they’re still not in the same country. But I promise they will be in the next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally they're back together! With many thanks to @ddagent, who was rather less over-worked than last week, but still definitely earned her ice cream.

On the first Monday in February, Serena is seated in her car in front of the hospital, engine still running to keep the heat going. She’s arrived early: too early really. She feels mildly ridiculous but she's _excited_. She's so looking forward to working with Bernie and to work on the trauma unit; for the first time in a long while, she couldn't wait to get to work.

In search of entertainment, she turns on the radio and spends ten minutes growing steadily more irate as she listens to the Health Secretary maintain steadfastly that there is no funding crisis in the NHS. When she has finally turned off Radio 4 in disgust, Serena looks up to see a figure with messy blonde hair at the wheel of a sporty grey Mazda pulling into the parking space opposite. She grins and climbs out of her own car. 

“Welcoming committee, Ms Campbell?” Bernie smiles as she approaches.

“Something like that. Thought you might like to grab a coffee before you get stuck in.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Serena leads Bernie across the car park and in through the entrance to the Wyvern Wing. “Stop one on the hospital tour: _Pulses_ , where vital supplies of caffeine may be found. What do you fancy?”

Bernie peruses the menu. “Do you remember when coffee was just coffee?”

“Strong and hot is all I care about on a day like today.”

“Aye-aye.” Bernie smirks at her and Serena grins back. “I'll have a latte.”

Bernie pulls her purse out of her bag. “No, no- my treat,” Serena argues. “It's your first day.” 

“Thank you.”

Coffee in hand, Serena leads Bernie to AAU, buzzing them both through the doors and then ushering her into the office that they are to share for the next three months. Serena watches as Bernie divests herself of coat, scarf and gloves, revealing a slim fitting black shirt, black skinny jeans and boots. Not for the first time, Serena finds herself envying Bernie’s figure. _My days of skin tight jeans are long gone. Clearly should've joined the army._ She chuckles inwardly at the thought. 

“Ready to meet the team?” 

“Lead on.”

They exit the office and make their way to the desk, where various members of the ward staff are gathered. Serena makes the introductions and then retreats to the other side of the ward to examine a patient, leaving them all to get to know one another. She reads Mr Geraghty’s notes with only half her attention. The other half is distracted watching Bernie as she talks first to Fletch and Raf; then a wide eyed and almost reverent Morven; and finally, the habitually quiet Lou. Serena lets out a sigh of relief. Part of her, a tiny, worry prone part, had been concerned about introducing Bernie to her staff; worried that, for some unfathomable reason they wouldn't like her, or she them. It was a ridiculous concern really and it's a relief to find that it was unfounded; Bernie has only been here ten minutes and already she's beginning to look like one of the team. 

***  
Bernie closes the door to the Human Resources office, glad to have finally completed the mounds of tedious paperwork that NHS bureaucracy insists upon. She makes her way along the corridor, down the stairs and around the corner. Then she stops. She is not where she expected to be. The corridors in AAU are a sort of blue-green. This one is pink. Clearly not AAU. Probably maternity, if past experience is anything to go by. There is a sign on the wall with a list of departments and she follows the arrows pointing her in the direction of AAU. She rounds the corner and marches down the corridor to the double doors at the end. The plaque above the door says ‘Otter Ward’. The doors are bright red and have pictures of animals on them. This isn't AAU either. She sighs and looks once again at the list of departments. The arrow next to AAU is pointing her back in the direction she just came from. How did that happen?

Evidently, making her way back to AAU under her own direction is a fool’s errand. She looks around for someone to ask and, finding the corridor empty, begins retracing her steps back along the corridor until she spies a young man dressed in the maroon polo shirt she recognises as the porters’ uniform at Holby. 

“Excuse me.”

The young man looks up. He has dark curly hair and glasses. “Can I help you?”

“You couldn’t direct me to AAU, could you?”

The young man regards her curiously. “You just follow the signs.”

Bernie gives him a weak smile. “Yes, I tried that; it didn’t work very well.”

“Maybe you’re not very good at following instructions.” He shrugs. “I’ll take you.”

He leads her off down the corridor and she follows gratefully. 

“Do you work here?” The young man asks after a minute of brisk walking. “You look like you do, but if you worked here you’d know where you were going.”

“I do work here, but I only started this morning.” 

“Oh!” His eyes widen. “You must be Dr Bernie. Auntie Serena’s friend.”

“Ah, you must be Jason.”

He nods. “Your hair is much better than she described.”

Bernie can't constrain a laugh at that and Jason joins her with a wide grin. “What did she say?”

“She said it resembled a bird’s nest. But it doesn't look like one at all. It's the wrong colour, for a start.” 

Bernie laughs again. She can't hold the comparison against Serena. _It's certainly true enough that it's a mess._

They chat companionably as they make their way down to AAU. Jason questions her closely about her work in the army: wanting to know about her rank; which regiment she is attached to; whether she’s been awarded any medals. When Bernie has furnished him with satisfactory answers, Jason tells her about his work as a porter. This topic of conversation carries them as far as the staffroom, where Jason sets about making them a cup of tea and, while the kettle boils, proceeds to enthuse at length about Mary Beard’s most recent series on Ancient Rome. Bernie takes a biscuit from the packet he offers and sits at the small table. Jason appears to have accepted her unquestioningly and she's pleased to have made such a favourable impression on Serena’s nephew. She thinks she's going to enjoy her stint at Holby; bewildering signposting aside, she’s already beginning to feel at home here. 

***  
“Right; lots of free fluid in the abdomen. Can you prep Mr Brennan for an exploratory laparotomy please.” Serena nods at Lou, pulling off her gloves before walking towards the desk. 

“Fletch, you haven't seen Ms Wolfe anywhere, have you?” 

“Not for a couple of hours. I assumed she was in your office.” 

“Thanks.” The office is dark and empty looking but Serena pokes her head around just to make sure. No Bernie. Serena glances at her watch. 11.30. Bernie can't still be up in HR. _Surely even the NHS can't invent that much paperwork?_

On a whim, Serena opens the door to the staffroom, only to discover her quarry, deep in conversation with Jason. 

“Hello Auntie Serena. Would you like a cup of tea? Dr Bernie and I were just talking about the Romans. Did you know they had the first professional army in the world?” 

Serena looks from Bernie to Jason in bewilderment. They are seated at the table, both cradling mugs of tea, looking for all the world as though this is a daily occurrence. 

“I bumped into Jason upstairs. I got lost coming back from HR. He very helpfully showed me the way back to AAU.” Bernie explains. 

“Oh.” 

“Would you like a cup of tea, or not? Only if you do I'll have to re-boil the kettle,” Jason says, clearly irritated by Serena’s distraction. 

“Um, I don't really have the time I'm afraid, Jason. I have to get to theatre. Actually I was looking for you.” Serena’s gaze slides from her nephew to Bernie. “How would you fancy joining me?”

“In theatre? I thought I was supposed to be drawing up trauma training plans for the rest of the day.” Bernie takes a sip of her tea. 

Serena answers with a mischievous smile. “Yes, well. What's the point in being ex-Deputy CEO if you can't bend the rules a little now and then?”

“Well…”

“Oh go on. Surely you'd rather be operating than faffing about with paperwork? You must be dying to get back into theatre and get your hands dirty.”

“What's the procedure?”

“Exploratory laparotomy. Patient was in an RTC; the fast scan shows free fluid in the abdomen.”

Bernie snorts. “You don't exactly need my help with that.”

“It's a trauma case. What's the point of having the country’s leading trauma surgeon on the staff if she doesn't make herself useful, hmm? Anyway, I thought it might be fun.”

“Oh, why not?” Bernie drains the remainder of her tea and follows Serena out of the door. 

***  
“As anticipated, I'm not sure my services are really required.” 

The patient lies on the table between them; his abdominal cavity open to reveal a straightforward arterial tear as the source of the bleed. It’s not a particularly tricky job. Bernie’s right: she doesn’t need to be there. Still, Serena’s rather enjoying her company, for all it isn’t a particularly efficient use of Bernie’s time. 

“If you want to go and twiddle your thumbs behind a desk, go right ahead. I hadn't realised you were so eager for more paperwork. Shall I put you down for the quarterly mortality statistics?” 

“I think I'll stick to admiring your handiwork, thank you. Maths never was my strong suit.”

“Yes, I noticed that from your comments on the funding proposal. Don't you have budgets in the army?”

Bernie winks. “Why do you think I have junior officers?”

Smiling underneath her scrub cap, Serena sets about repairing the artery. As she works under the watchful eyes of Bernie, Fletch, the anaesthetist and the operating theatre technician, she is struck by how different this must be from what Bernie’s accustomed to in the field. A full team; decent lighting; backup on hand should anything unexpected crop up. She can’t imagine that Bernie often has the luxury of simply observing another surgeon at work. 

“So, Ms Wolfe, how’s Holby City comparing to Kabul so far?”

“Very well equipped, if you like to take the easy route.” Serena arches one eyebrow, but says nothing.

Bernie’s eyes, however, are dancing above her scrub mask. “No risk of explosive devices; no operating at the side of the road. Where's the challenge?”

“Six months ago we had a helicopter crash into the building. That challenging enough for you?”

“I don't think we’ll have to go quite that far, thank you. I'm sure I can acclimatise myself to the peace and quiet.”

Serena finishes the repair and looks up, intending to ask Bernie to cut the suture. But she is already waiting, scissors poised. “Thank you.” 

Their eyes meet. It is several seconds before Bernie responds. “You're welcome.” 

An aggressive bleeping from the monitor signals that all is not well. Serena looks down to see visible evidence of the patient’s plummeting blood pressure: the abdominal cavity is once again filling with blood. “Dammit. With this much blood, it has to be the spleen.” 

Bernie retracts the wound and they both lean forwards, heads nearly touching, in search of the injury. “There.” Bernie reaches her hand forward to apply pressure at the exact moment Serena does the same thing; their gloved fingers almost entwining in the confined space. 

Serena works quickly to repair the tear, but blood continues to pour. “It’s not holding. I think the spleen is going to have to come out. Scalpel please?” 

She lifts her gaze from the abdominal cavity to look at Fletch, reaching out for the instrument. Across the table, her eyes meet Bernie’s. She stills her hand. “You don’t agree?” Serena isn’t quite sure how she knows this: most of Bernie’s face is obscured, after all, but something in her eyes isn’t happy. 

“No, I don’t. May I try?”

Serena hesitates. If they spend too long attempting to repair the spleen, there's a risk of the patient bleeding out on the table. But Bernie’s seen more than her share of splenic injuries over the years; Serena trusts she knows her own capabilities and thinks it's a risk worth taking. “Ok.” Serena steps back, allowing Bernie to take her place, before walking around to the other side of the patient. “Come on then. Let’s see you strut your stuff, Major.”

Bernie huffs out a laugh and sets to work. She works quickly, efficiently. It's a matter of minutes before Serena is certain the gamble will pay off. 

“So, Ms Wolfe, is this providing enough excitement for you? Or do I need to arrange for us to operate under gunfire to liven things up a bit?”

“It will do for now. I must say, I'm enjoying the novelty of operating in sterile conditions and not having sand all over my instruments. You never know, you might make an NHS surgeon out of me yet.”

“Ha! Don’t quite see it myself. But you’re welcome in my theatre any time, Ms Wolfe.” 

Over the course of their acquaintance, Serena had often wondered what it would be like to operate with Bernie. Partly, curiosity stemmed from Bernie’s renown as a trauma surgeon: Serena is genuinely interested to watch her work; eager to learn from her skill. But she has also contemplated how they would work together; whether the rapport which they had built so easily would translate to theatre. Most surgeons have more than a little bit of an ego; they like things done in their own way. It often translates into friction and Serena had feared it might strain their friendship. She shouldn't have worried: operating with Bernie is a delight. 

She can’t wait to do it again. 

***  
Three successful operations and a glass of wine later, Bernie leans back against the leather upholstery of the sofa and looks around at her companions. Serena is seated next to her, holding court with Fletch and Morven, regaling them with some story or other that Bernie hasn't quite listened to. 

“Can I top you up?” Raf holds out the bottle of wine. 

They're onto their second bottle, she and the rest of the AAU gang. A feeling of contentment has settled over her while sitting in Albie’s, the bar frequented by the hospital staff. Maybe it's the wine, but she feels as though she belongs here, with them. She likes Serena’s team. They're a talented, hardworking bunch and the esteem in which they hold Serena is palpable. She's going to enjoy working with them all, she's quite certain of that. 

“Go on then,” she tells Raf. He pours the wine carefully into her glass and then watches as she takes a sip. 

“So how do you and Serena know each other?”

Bernie takes another sip of wine. “We met at the AGS conference last year.”

Raf’s eyes widen at her response. “Really?” 

Bernie nods. “You seem surprised.”

“I thought maybe you’d trained together. Watching the two of you in theatre today; it was so harmonious. I’d never have guessed it was the first time you’d worked together.” 

Bernie shrugs. “It's easy to make it look easy when you're working with a surgeon as good as Serena.” Raf is right though. They had made a good team. There had been none of the awkwardness or posturing one often has when two consultants first work together.

She glances at her watch. “Sorry everyone. One last glass and then I really ought to head home.” 

“So soon?” Serena asks as Raf divides the remains of the bottle between Bernie, Serena, Morven and himself; Fletch decamping to the bar for another pint. 

“Well I can’t stay out drinking till all hours. Someone needs to be sober enough to treat some patients,” Bernie teases. 

“What have you lot been telling her?” Serena looks from Raf to Fletch, who are wearing identical expressions of gleeful innocence. 

“They didn't have to tell me anything,” Bernie retorts pointedly. “I've experienced the after effects of too much Shiraz with you before.” 

Serena flashes her a wicked grin.

“Ah-ha,” Fletch interjects. “There's a story there. Come on Bernie, out with it.” 

Bernie shakes her head. “I'm saying nothing. Except there was a lot of alcohol involved and the last time I had a headache that bad was the morning after I found out I’d passed my FRCS exam.”

***  
Ten minutes later, Bernie downs the last of her wine. “Right, I must be off.” She clambers to her feet, retrieving her coat from a nearby armchair, and slipping her arms into the sleeves. 

“I'll join you.” Serena places her own glass on the table.

“You feeling alright boss? It's a bit early for you to be heading home, isn't it?” Fletch grins at Serena over the top of his pint glass. 

“I've been known to have an early night on occasion,” Serena responds with lofty dignity. “And I'll thank you not to give Bernie the impression that I'm a raging alcoholic.”

“Bit late for that.”

“Oi!” Serena's tone is outraged, but her eyes sparkle with mirth and, for several seconds, Bernie basks in the unexpected moment of camaraderie. 

“Right,” Serena says after a long pause. “We’d best be off. Night all.” 

Shoulder to shoulder they walk out to the dark car park. A lone taxi is parked under the street lamp, engine purring quietly. 

“I think that's for me. Can I give you a lift?” 

“No it's fine- I'm only a few minutes’ walk. I'll get Marcus to drive me in tomorrow.” 

“Ok.” Serena is silent for a moment. “Bernie…Thanks for agreeing to do this.” She pauses and then pulls Bernie into a hug. 

Bernie’s not usually a tactile person. But it’s different somehow with Serena. Perhaps it’s because Serena is so open in her affections that Bernie finds hugging her entirely natural. “I'm not doing you a favour, Serena,” Bernie smiles. “This benefits me just as much as you.”

“Possibly. But I'm still very grateful that you're here. The trauma unit is important to me. And I'm really going to enjoy working with you.” 

“Me too.”

Serena gives Bernie another smile and then climbs into the waiting taxi. 

“Goodnight Serena.” Bernie waves as the car pulls away and then turns towards home, coat pulled tightly around her in the cold of the winter evening. 

It’s been a success overall, Bernie thinks, as she walks briskly down the road. She’d been worried, before today, about how it would go. She and Serena got on so well at the conference when they met; got on so well in their email exchanges. She’d been worried that, for one reason or another, the closeness that they had developed wouldn’t translate back into real life. She’d feared that it would be awkward and stilted, or that they would struggle to negotiate the transition from friends to colleagues; a disaster for the whole project, given how closely they’ll be working together. 

But she thinks it’s going to be fine. She knows it’s only the first day, knows they’ve got a long way to go, but she thinks it’s going to be fine. There was no awkwardness, no difficulty. Working with Serena felt entirely natural. 

Finally arriving home, Bernie digs out her keys and unlocks the front door. She kicks off her boots; registers dimly that Marcus will probably frown at them when he sees them, but leaves them there anyway. _It’s my house too_. It’s petty, she knows. 

“Marcus?” He must be home; his car’s in the drive. 

“In the kitchen.”

She makes her way along the hall to the kitchen at the back of the house. Marcus is standing by the stove, stirring. She sniffs appreciatively. “That smells lovely.”

“It’s that tagine you’re so fond of. It’s pretty much done.”

“Wonderful. Shall I lay the table?”

Marcus nods, and starts ladling the tagine onto plates. “So, how did it go?”

Bernie pulls the placemats and cutlery out of the drawer and sets them on the table. “Good. Really good. It’s a great team; they’re all very keen on the trauma unit. I think I’m going to really enjoy it.” She takes a jug from the dresser and fills it with water before sitting down. 

“That's great.” Marcus sets the plates down on the table and takes his own seat. “And Serena Campbell? How do you think it's going to be working with her?”

Bernie looks up from her tagine. “Great. We work well together.”

“Good.” 

They eat in silence for several minutes until Marcus sets down his fork.

“Look, Bernie, I-” Marcus taps his finger against his water glass, a nervous habit he's had since they were medical students. “I know I was a bit grumpy; last week, and this morning. I'm sorry. It really is nice to have you home. It's just taking a bit of adjustment. And it's great that you and Serena get on so well. We should invite her round for dinner one evening. I'd like to get to know her properly.”

Bernie nods. She doesn't particularly want to invite Serena around for dinner. She's accustomed to the various elements of her life being compartmentalised. She is quite happy with Serena being her friend rather than Marcus’. But this is what people do, isn't it? Normal people with normal jobs in normal marriages. They have colleagues round for dinner and socialise with one another’s friends. _So why do I dislike the idea so much?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, my thanks to the heroic @ddagent for editing this despite ongoing injury. You deserve all the cheesecake :)

AAU’s trauma training starts on a grey, miserable Wednesday, two days after Bernie’s arrival at Holby. Serena can feel the buzz of excitement in the air as soon as she walks into the ward. Bernie’s enthusiasm for the trauma bay is infectious and Serena is pleased that her staff have embraced both Bernie and the trauma bay with alacrity. 

The first session is targeted at the nursing staff. After a quick ward briefing to start the day, Fletch, Lou and a handful of others follow Bernie into the side room which is doing service as a ‘trauma training facility’, while work takes place on constructing the trauma bay itself. 

Serena, however, spends the first two hours of the day in an extremely tedious heads of department meeting, the only outcome of which is to ensure that she finds Guy Self even more infuriating than she did the day before; a feat which on reflection strikes Serena as quite remarkable. When she re-enters the ward mid-morning, it is to relative calm. She scans the board quickly and is pleased to find that not only is the theatre empty, but there are no patients in urgent need of a bed elsewhere. 

She makes a quick tour of the ward; nodding to Morven, who is seated next to a patient at the far end of the main bay. When she reaches the side room she pauses by the door and peers through the pane of glass. Bernie has her back to the door, blocking Serena’s view, but she can see Fletch lying on the bed; obviously playing the patient for whatever exercise they're engaged in. Lou is scribbling industriously in a note pad. 

“Checking up on her?”

Serena starts at Raf’s words. “Not at all; just intrigued.” She turns away from the side room and follows Raf back to the desk. 

“I'm a bit surprised you don't mind,” Raf says, looking up from the chart he's scribbling on.

“Mind?”

“Well, another consultant, similar standing, though different experience. Organising things on your ward; training your staff; taking control. I'd have thought it would, well, bother you.”

The strange thing is, Serena muses, when Raf has departed to examine a patient with suspicious abdominal pain, it really _should_ bother her. It would bother her usually; it has certainly done so in the past. She and Ric are forever butting heads if they're on the same ward. She's worked hard to be where she is, to get herself where she's got to. She has fought through the old boys’ network by hook or by crook. At times that had meant elbowing her way in; making herself unpopular. 

Serena’s not daft; she knows her reputation. Others in the hospital think her hard-nosed, overly business minded. They think her out for herself and furthering her own interest, her own career. It's an accusation that dogs the other ambitious female surgeons too: Jac Naylor, Connie Beauchamp. Serena hears what people say about all three of them. _Distant. Emotionless. Does she ever see her daughter?_ A woman with ambition is a threatening and peculiar thing. 

Because of the fight she's had in order to get to her position; because she knows how many people would like to see her fail; Serena has always fiercely guarded her patch, unwilling to cede control. Why is it that she doesn't mind giving up a little of that control now? Partly it's because, deep down, she isn't as hard-nosed as they think. She's always put the good of the patients first. The trauma bay is definitely in the patient interest, and the trauma bay means accepting Bernie’s expertise and guidance. But it's also because she trusts Bernie herself. She knows that Bernie understands what it is to make choices and sacrifices in pursuit of your career; to be judged for them and have to defend them. Serena trusts that Bernie will have her back, will support her and help her. Bernie isn't in competition with her, not in that way; not for dominance at Holby.

_Speak of the devil_. As the trauma training pauses for a mid-morning break, Bernie ducks out of the side room and joins Serena at the desk. “Everything alright? One of the nurses mentioned you were looking in. Do you need me back on the ward?”

No challenges, no criticism, just support. “No, no, just wanted to see how things are going. Rather eager for my turn, as it were. It looks like it’s going well. Keep up the good work, soldier.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They share a smile as Bernie offers a tiny salute. “Right, I’ll be back in twenty; page me if you need a hand.”

_That’s it_ , Serena thinks as she watches Bernie depart, _that is what draws us together._ Their mutual experiences of being women in the old boys’ club of surgery and in the macho dominated worlds of business and the army; their refusal to sacrifice their own hopes and dreams to live up to an imagined ideal of perfect motherhood; their shared fear that their children will resent them for their decisions. For all these reasons and more besides, Bernie is her ally, not her rival. 

***  
Still feeling the warmth of Serena’s support - and the satisfaction of a productive training session with the nurses of AAU - the February temperatures come as something of a shock. Bernie pulls on her newly acquired Holby City hoodie and then adds her coat and scarf for good measure. It's cold, so cold that snow is forecast for the following day, but it's been a busy morning and she needs some fresh air and a cigarette. 

She makes her way to the peace garden; a spot she has become fond of in the short time she has spent at Holby. It's a good place to find some solitude; though on the present occasion, the bench is already occupied. 

“Hello Jason. May I take a seat?”

“No!” Jason looks up in surprise. “The bench belongs to the hospital: you can't take it.” 

“I meant: can I sit next to you?” She gestures to the space on the bench beside him. 

“Oh. Yes, I'd like that.” 

Bernie sits down on Jason’s right and extracts the packet of cigarettes from her coat pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Jason shakes his head, watching her as she lights the cigarette and takes a drag. “Cigarettes are very bad for your health,” he says after some moments’ pause. “I would have thought you'd know that.” 

“I do, Jason.”

He looks confused. “Then why don't you give up?”

Bernie takes another drag of her cigarette. Vestiges of the most recent conversation with Marcus on the subject of her smoking flit around her head. _It sets a terrible example to the kids. The house reeks of smoke. Do you have a death wish?_ That had been Marcus’ parting shot on that occasion. 

“Dr Bernie?”

Bernie’s focus is drawn back to the present, back to Jason sitting on the bench beside her. “Sorry Jason?” 

“Why _don't_ you give up?” 

_Good question. Why doesn't she? Stubbornness; a perverse attempt to retain her independence; sheer bloody mindedness, probably._

“It’s an old habit,” she says to Jason, eventually. “And I enjoy it.” 

Jason accepts this, though is clearly internally filing her pronouncement under the heading of ‘things people say and do which are illogical and thus utterly baffling.’ He continues to sit in silence as she smokes the remainder of the cigarette, stubs it out on the concrete paving and tosses the butt into the bin. 

“You're very quiet, Jason.” 

“I'm thinking.” 

“I see.” Bernie pauses, wondering whether to leave the conversation there. But Jason looks troubled, even a little anxious. “Is there anything wrong?” 

Jason turns his head to face her. “I want to buy Celia a present for Valentine’s Day. I thought I'd buy her some jewellery, but I'm worried she won't like it.”

“Why wouldn't she like it?” 

Jason’s expression shifts from worry to sadness. “I always get the wrong thing. And I never understand why it's wrong. Auntie Serena likes jewellery, I heard her saying so to Dr Digby once. So I bought her a necklace for her birthday. I thought she'd like it, and she said she did, but she's never worn it; so obviously she didn't like it at all. Why do people never say what they mean?”

“Well, sometimes people say things they don't quite mean so they don't hurt other people's feelings.”

Jason looks confused. “But how am I supposed to learn things if people don't tell me when I get things wrong?” 

“I don't think you did get anything wrong, Jason. Auntie Serena always wears the same pendant doesn't she? I assume it's special to her in some way.” 

Jason nods. “Yes. Her father gave it to her on her 18th birthday.” 

“And her father died not long after she started medical school, didn't he? That would make the pendant very special to her. It has sentimental value. So I imagine that, while she does like your necklace very much, she doesn't wear it because she has one that she wears already. It's not that you got anything wrong.”

Jason nods again, and looks considerably more cheerful. 

“So there’s really no reason to worry that Celia won't like your gift. What were you thinking of getting her?”

“I’ve seen a bracelet I think she'd like. It has lapis lazuli in it. That's a blue stone and blue is Celia’s favourite colour.”

“I think that sounds like a wonderful present, Jason,” Bernie assures him. “I'm sure Celia will be very touched come the fourteenth.” 

***  
Valentine’s Day arrives with a slew of romantically induced injuries. These range from the mundane (the student who nearly amputated his finger with a kitchen knife while making his beloved breakfast-in-bed), to the comically implausible (the man who fell 15 feet from a balcony trying to recreate Romeo and Juliet). Morven and Jasmine appear to find these displays of Valentine fervour romantic; Serena thinks they are, in their different ways, ridiculous. 

She is in the middle of explaining the results of his scan to Mr Attempted-to-climb-a-balcony when Morven enters the ward; her arms filled with what looks, at Serena’s estimation, to be three dozen red roses. _Someone’s clearly splashed out._ Morven approaches the desk and, to Serena’s surprise, thrusts the roses towards Bernie. Bernie looks aghast and, after awkwardly taking the flowers which are pressed into her hands, marches off towards the office, leaving a puzzled Morven behind her. 

Serena leaves Balcony-Man in Lou’s capable hands intending to go after her friend, but is way-laid by Jasmine, whose apparently straightforward hernia patient has developed a mystery pain in her foot. Consequently, it is nearly twenty minutes before she manages to make her way to the office. When she enters, Serena finds Bernie seated at her desk, apparently engrossed in a pile of discharge forms; the roses parked precariously on the corner of the desk furthest from her. 

“Marcus?” Serena inclines her head towards the roses. 

“Mmm-hmm”.

“They're beautiful flowers.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes - yes they are.”

Serena sinks into her own chair. “So what’s the problem? Didn't have you pegged as a ‘he must buy me diamonds’ kind of a girl.” 

Bernie smiles and shakes her head. “I'm not, obviously. I couldn't give two hoots about Valentine's Day. It's just…”

Serena’s curiosity gets the better of her. “What is it?”

“I really don't care about Valentine’s Day at all, and I know I should be grateful for the gesture, but why does he have to do it like _this_!” Bernie waves her hands at the flowers. “Sending flowers to the ward: it's so, well- ostentatious. Public. Making me the centre of attention. I hate that sort of thing. And red roses! I don't even _like_ red roses. He knows that.”

Serena pauses. “Look on the bright side: at least he's still trying after twenty odd years. I think Edward might have managed to buy me a box of chocolates for Valentines once…” She tails off, reluctant to complete the thought, struck by the Edward-ness of the roses: the grand romantic gesture which was more about him and how he wanted to be perceived, than about his affection for the recipient. 

She changes tack. “Perhaps he simply lacked good guidance. Unlike my nephew. Thank you for helping Jason with Celia.”

Bernie looks up and gives Serena a genuine smile. “He's very welcome. He's a very thoughtful young man. Kind. Caring. Much like his aunt.”

Serena feels herself colour slightly. “Well thank you.” Feeling suddenly awkward, she grasps around for a change of subject. “And thank you for the dinner invitation for Saturday by the way. Do I need to bring anything, besides Shiraz, of course.”

“Just Shiraz is fine.” 

***  
Saturday finds Serena seated in the back of a taxi as it navigates along the wide tree lined avenue. She peers through the darkness at the house numbers on the gate posts, eventually spotting Bernie’s Mazda on the driveway of number 19. She pays the taxi driver, grabs the promised bottle of Shiraz, and climbs out of the car to make her way to the front door. 

She's a bit apprehensive about this evening if she's completely honest. She likes Bernie very much, as a colleague and as a friend. It feels important that she like Marcus too, that Marcus like her. That Marcus not object to her friendship with his wife. _Ridiculous_ , she thinks. _What's it got to do with Marcus if Bernie and I are friends? It makes no odds to him._

Standing on the doorstep of the imposing Victorian gothic house, Serena is struck by how _little_ she knows about Marcus and how _odd_ it seems given how well she feels she knows the other members of the Wolfe-Dunn clan. She knows that Bernie drank so much caffeine during her finals at medical school that she'd been unable to sleep for two days afterwards; that Cameron’s beloved childhood teddy bear had been named ‘The General’ after Bernie’s father; that Charlotte had had to have her fourth birthday party cancelled due to chicken pox. 

But of Marcus she knows only the very barest of facts: that he and Bernie had met at medical school and married shortly afterwards; that he works at St James’; that he is an orthopaedic surgeon with an unremarkable reputation. She doesn't know if he drinks scotch or gin; whether he plays golf or shouts loudly at the television during football matches; whether he shares his wife’s love of greasy junk food or eats quinoa and chia seeds.

_Time to find out, I suppose_. She raises her hand to the polished brass knocker and gives it a firm tap. She hears footsteps and then, distorted through the stained glass in the door, sees a figure moving towards her. The door swings back and Bernie appears; dressed in her customary skinny jeans, which have been paired with a crisp white shirt. Her feet are bare and when she sees Serena her expression breaks into a wide grin.

“Serena!” Bernie stands aside and waves her into the hall. She takes Serena’s coat, hanging it on the stand just inside the door, then waits as Serena removes her shoes, before ushering her into the living room. 

“Have a seat.” Bernie motions Serena towards the sofa. “Glass of red?” 

“You know me so well.” 

“I'll just be a minute.” 

Bernie vanishes into the hall and Serena takes the opportunity to examine her surroundings. It's a lovely room: beautifully proportioned, with high ceilings. It's papered in a William Morris print on a dark blue background, with deep blue velvet curtains and matching upholstered sofas. It's perfectly in keeping with the house, but seems far too ornate to belong to Bernie, who Serena had always imagined would prefer a less fussy style. 

There are photographs on the mantelpiece: the Dunn family through the years. School photographs: a little girl with long blonde hair; a small dark haired boy with missing front teeth. There is a group shot that looks like it's from the end of one of Bernie’s tours: Bernie in fatigues, arms around Cameron and Charlotte who look to be in their late teens. A wedding photograph: Bernie, achingly young and beautiful in a floor length wedding gown; standing next to an older, white haired man who, Serena guesses from both his appearance and the army uniform he wears, to be Bernie’s father. 

Her contemplation of the photographs is interrupted by the arrival of her hosts. 

“Serena,” Bernie says, passing her a glass of wine, “this is Marcus. Marcus, Serena Campbell.”

Marcus rolls his eyes. “We've met before, Bern.” He holds his hand out to Serena.

_Bern? He calls her Bern_? She takes Marcus’ offered hand and gives it a brief shake, appraising him silently as she seats herself next to Bernie on the overstuffed Chesterfield. 

They make polite small talk, largely of the medical variety: hospital politics; friends and acquaintances in common. Bernie is quiet for the most part, allowing Serena and Marcus to carry the conversation; only becoming more animated when the discussion turns to a terrifying and aged surgeon who, it turns out, she and Serena had both worked under at various points in their careers. 

Eventually Marcus announces that dinner is ready and she and Bernie follow him along the tiled hall into the deep red dining room, where one end of the large mahogany table has been laid. 

“This is a beautiful house,” Serena says as she takes her seat.

Marcus smiles. “Thank you. We've only been here a couple of years. It was my mother's.”

_Ah. Well that makes sense of that_. 

Marcus keeps up an informative, if rather dry monologue about the house and its history as they eat their soup; it is only when they proceed to the main course that Serena manages to divert the conversation. 

“This is delicious,” Serena says, taking an appreciative bite of her lamb. “Which chef do I need to compliment?” She looks between her hosts enquiringly.

Marcus lets out a dry chuckle. “Oh, never any question of that in this house. Bernie’s hopeless in the kitchen. Catering is very much _my_ department.” 

Serena doesn't miss the flash of irritation in Bernie’s eyes at her husband’s remarks and tamps down on her own ire. The man is married to the country’s leading frontline surgeon for god’s sake. Why on earth does he care about her _cooking_? “As my mother once said, there is a reason why God invented Marks and Spencer's.”

“You told me your mother was a fantastic cook,” Bernie whispers when Marcus leaves the table in search of more wine.

“Oh she was,” Serena agrees. “Absolutely marvellous. But she also had a publishing house to run. She thought M&S ready meals were the third greatest invention of the twentieth century.”

“Only the third greatest?” Bernie raises an amused eyebrow.

Serena nods. “After the pill and the automatic washing machine.” She drains her wine glass. “I used to think she was talking generally when she spoke about the pill, but after I found out about Jason’s mother, well, I realised how personal it was for her. She would have been spared the pain of having to give up a child.”

Bernie places a hand over Serena’s. “But then you would never have had Jason.” 

“True.”

They are quiet for several moments, until the return of Marcus with a fresh bottle of wine breaks the spell and Serena turns the conversation to their respective children.

Later, in the taxi home, Serena contemplates her evening and, in particular, contemplates Marcus. He's shorter than she remembered him to be, pleasant enough to look at she supposes, though he strikes her as extremely, well _ordinary_ in comparison with his wife. Bernie is such an extraordinary woman in so many ways, clever and talented and beautiful, that Serena, despite having met Marcus before, had somehow expected him to be more brilliant, more impressive. She had expected, now that she thinks about it, someone more attractive, more charming, more ambitious. 

She chastises herself silently. After all, she of all people knows the drawbacks to charm and ambition. Edward had been charming, still is if she is honest. He'd been ambitious too, when they’d first met at Harvard. Clever and talented, he'd been frank in his desire to move from medicine to management as quickly as possible, drawn by the lure of a large salary and a nice office. But Edward’s ambitions had never been matched by application, and a combination of his work ethic (or rather, lack of it) and his fondness for single malt had meant that his boardroom ambitions had never been realised. 

No, better Marcus’ comparative dullness than Edward’s charm and roving eye. Marcus after all, has much to recommend him: loyal; clearly a devoted father; and he'd certainly made an effort with Serena that evening, cooking and playing host. And yet, something about the relationship between Bernie and her husband feels off. Or rather, Bernie herself feels off: quieter, less animated, less herself. All in all, Serena suspects the marriage is not as happy as Marcus’ Valentine’s Day tribute clearly intends to portray.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, many many thanks are due to @ddagent for critiquing my characterisation, finessing my scene transitions and improving my punctuation.

March 1st finds Serena standing at the desk on the ward; staring at a phone. A red phone to be precise. A red phone which, at some point in her ten hour shift, is going to ring and announce the impending arrival of their first trauma patient. 

“It won't bite, you know,” Bernie’s voice murmurs in her ear.

“Sorry?”

“The phone, it won't bite.”

“But it will ring, and then we’ll have to deal with whatever it is.”

Bernie nods gravely. “I believe that's how trauma centres usually work; treating trauma patients, responding to emergencies.”

“Very droll.” 

“Serena,” Bernie places a placatory hand on her arm. “We’re prepared for this. The trauma bay is finished; the equipment has all been delivered; the staff are well trained. There is absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“I know you're right, but-” Serena turns to look at Bernie. “Are you not nervous at all?”

Bernie shrugs. “A little. But I've done much scarier things in my time. And at the end of the day, this is your trauma project; not mine.”

“I suppose it is,” Serena nods. “But it feels very much as though it's been a joint endeavour. You've been so instrumental in the whole thing, right from the initial idea. All your feedback on the grant proposal; agreeing to come in and consult when I couldn't find anyone else. I'm enormously grateful to you.” 

Bernie blushes. “Don't be silly. You make it sound completely one sided. I get a lot out of this arrangement too, remember? I've been in military practice for so long; it's good to see some civilian medicine, especially trauma. The administrative experience is invaluable, too: this project will keep my CO quiet about the need to ‘broaden my managerial horizons’ for the next three years. And of course, there's the bonus that I get to work with one of the country's leading vascular surgeons.”

“Ah well, there is that I suppose.” Serena grins and places a hand over Bernie’s. “Really though Bernie, _thank you_. I couldn't have done it without you. And I'm very glad you're here.”

 _It’s true. Every word_. Bernie’s expertise has been invaluable; her presence on the ward supportive and calming. Serena can't imagine how it would have been to set up the trauma unit without her. 

The shrill and much anticipated ringing of the red phone interrupts any further thought. Serena and Bernie both stare at it, hesitating for so long that Fletch marches across the room. 

“Honestly, is neither of you actually going to answer that?” He looks from one to the other, seeking a response but finding none, before picking up the receiver. 

“Holby City trauma unit, Adrian Fletcher speaking. Yes. Ok. Right. Ten minutes.”

He hangs up. “We have a hand injury coming in. Industrial accident apparently.”

“Industrial accident? Is that all they told you?” Serena interrogates Fletch as he makes the necessary calls to prepare the ward. “That could mean anything! Poor sod could have amputated his hand. What the hell are they thinking, sending us our first trauma patient with next to no details?”

“It’s not uncommon, for a trauma situation. There may not be further details available,” Bernie explains as they make their way into their shiny new trauma bay, She places a soothing hand on Serena’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”

Serena however, is not so convinced. “It’s all very well for you. You’re used to dealing with the aftermath of explosions and gunfire on a daily basis. For those of us less accustomed to disaster, it’s all rather unnerving.”

“You said it: I’m used to it. Remind me to tell you about my first overseas posting sometime.” Bernie smiles, her hand squeezing Serena’s shoulder. “It will be fine; you’ll see.”

In the end, Bernie is proven correct. When the patient arrives, the ‘industrial accident’ turns out to be a carpenter who has managed to put a screwdriver through his hand. He’s remarkably cheerful for a man impaled with a sharp implement, though Serena suspects that this is probably because he's high as a kite from the morphine doled out to him by the paramedics. 

So relaxed is he by opiates that he's utterly unfazed by his injury. “Honestly Doc; it's fine, it really is. I don't know why I'm here.”

“Well I think the large screwdriver protruding from your hand might have something to do with why you're here, Mr Perkins,” Serena tells him briskly. “Now, if you could just lie still a minute while I take a look at this.” She prods gently at the hand with a gloved finger. “Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” He does as bidden. “Right, Mr Perkins. You appear to have missed the major nerves and blood vessels, but I think we’ll get an x-ray just to make sure. After that, we'll get you into theatre.” 

She glances up at Bernie, who nods her agreement. “Could you arrange the x-ray please, Lou.”

“Really, Doc,” Mr Perkins protests, “I don't think that's necessary. I can remove it perfectly well myself.” And to prove his point, he takes hold of the screwdriver and yanks it from his left hand, sending a fountain of blood spattering all over Serena.

 _Perfect, just perfect. Our first patient: I’m covered in blood and he’s probably given himself nerve damage. Not exactly ‘off to a flying start.’_ “Thanks Lou,” she says as the nurse grabs a wad of dressings and presses hard on the wound to stem the flow. 

Bernie plucks the screwdriver from Mr Perkins’ fingers. “I'll take that, thank you. That was an extraordinarily stupid thing to do, who knows what additional damage you may have caused. We’ll skip the x-ray, now that Mr Perkins has removed the foreign body for us. Let's get him straight to theatre.” 

As Mr Perkins is wheeled away, Serena tries to soak up the worst of the blood from her blouse and trousers with more dressings. 

“You ok?” Bernie hands her a wad of paper towels. 

“Thanks. I just need to get out of these clothes.” Serena tosses the dressings and paper towels into the nearest medical waste bin. “I suspect this blouse is ruined.” She looks down ruefully at the now blood spattered leopard print. “And now I'm in scrubs for the rest of the day. _Wonderful_. I hate wearing scrubs.”

“What's wrong with scrubs?” Bernie asks her as they walk towards the locker room. “Scrubs are the surgeon’s uniform!” 

“Hmph. You _would_ think that. I suppose there's nothing wrong with them if you're all svelte and long limbed and toned like you, but if you're possessed of a rather more generous figure,” Serena glances down at herself, “they're not terribly flattering.”

“Don't be ridiculous, you always look amazing.” Serena feels herself colour at Bernie’s words and the silence stretches between them almost to the point of awkwardness. “Of course, the colour of these particular scrubs leaves something to be desired,” she adds, with a sly grin at Serena.

“The colour of the scrubs is their only redeeming feature,” she retorts. “But there's no accounting for taste. If light blue doesn't suit you, you can always decamp to Darwin.”

“Superior though the scrubs are, I'd much rather face you over an operating table than Jac Naylor.”

“On which note, I suppose we ought to go and see what damage Mr Perkins has done to himself.” 

***  
Somewhat remarkably, it transpires that Mr Perkins has avoided doing himself any serious harm. Serena joins Bernie in theatre, having exchanged her blood soaked clothing for the hated scrubs, and proceeds to make short work of cleaning and suturing the wound. She doesn’t really need Bernie’s help, but Bernie stays to assist anyway. She wants to observe their first trauma case in full. 

“We’ll make a trauma surgeon of you yet!” 

“Ha! I think that accolade might be a little premature, but thank you for the sentiment. Perhaps we’d better save the celebrations until we’ve survived a major incident!” 

For all Serena’s nonchalance, Bernie’s proud of the way the team have handled their first full trauma; a feeling which does not diminish in the days which follow, as an increasing stream of trauma injuries make their way through the doors of AAU. Everything runs like clockwork and by the end of the week, the fledgling trauma unit is fully functioning. 

The only downside to this is that the piles of paperwork on Bernie’s desk have grown to Everest-like proportions. 

She scribbles her signature on the bottom of the sheet of paper in front of her and drops it onto the ‘completed’ pile with a sigh.

Serena shoots her a wry grin from behind her own desk on the other side of the office. “Think of it as the latest battle in an ongoing war.” 

“Hmm?”

“The paperwork.”

Bernie grins back. “I'm think I'm used to my opponents being rather less intransigent.”

“Surely the great Major Wolfe isn't defeated by the creaking machine of NHS bureaucracy?” Serena teases. 

“I think I might be.” Bernie eyes the sheaf of papers with distaste. “Why do trauma patients come with three extra forms, again?”

“Focus, soldier!” Serena bats back, and Bernie can't ignore the warmth she feels in response to Serena's smile. “Half an hour more and we can escape to Albie’s.”

The promise of alcohol proves to be excellent motivation and forty five minutes later Bernie strides out of the doors to AAU; Serena by her side. They quickly come to an abrupt halt just inside the hospital entrance. 

“Where did that come from?” 

“No idea.” Bernie shakes her head as she looks out at the downpour. 

They watch the rain for a minute. 

“This doesn't look like it's stopping any time soon,” Bernie observes.

“No.” Serena rummages in her bag. “Blast, no umbrella.”

Bernie doesn't bother looking. She knows she doesn't have one. “Looks like we’ll have to run for it.”

“In this?” Serena replies, horrified. “Are you mad? We’ll get drenched.”

“Oh come on Campbell, surely you're not afraid of a bit of rain!” Bernie chides. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” She sets off across the car park in the direction of the pub. Serena hesitates for a moment before following.

By the time they arrive at Albie’s, they are both soaked. Serena’s hair is plastered to her head and her coat is saturated but her eyes are bright with amusement. Bernie is smiling too. She looks ruefully down at her shirt, once loosely fitted and now clinging to her body. Looking up, she finds Serena staring at her; something in her expression which Bernie can't quite compute. “You're sopping,” Serena says, rather unnecessarily. “Bad day to ditch the coat.”

Somehow, Serena sweet talks the barman into finding them a clean towel and gives her own hair a quick rub before handing it to Bernie. She is towelling off the worst of the moisture when Serena returns and slides a tumbler of whisky across the table towards her.

“No Shiraz?”

“I thought we needed warming up,” Serena replies. “And I have Shiraz at home. You should come back and have dinner with me and Jason. It's fish and chips night.” 

Bernie hesitates and Serena suddenly looks uncertain. “Oh, I'm sorry- I imagine Marcus is expecting you back.”

“Not at all,” Bernie replies as she drains her glass. “I’d love to join you both. I haven't had fish and chips in ages.”

Mercifully, the rain has stopped and they walk back to collect their cars; Bernie following Serena on the short drive to her home. 

Serena parks in front of a large Georgian house some way out of the centre of Holby. It's a lovely location, with views over open countryside, but still close to the hospital. The house is beautiful too, built in warm Bath stone with large windows; not that Bernie would expect anything less from Serena. 

She follows Serena into the large entrance hall and through to the kitchen. 

“Wow.”

As Serena switches on the kettle and drops teabags into mugs, Bernie examines her surroundings. The kitchen-diner is huge, obviously recently remodelled and refitted, with a large brick and glass extension augmenting the room’s original proportions. The dining table sits under a vast roof light, facing glazed doors through which Bernie can see a stone paved terrace and, beyond, the large garden. 

“This is beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” Serena smiles with obvious pride and pleasure. “We bought it when Ellie was tiny. It was a wreck; one room or another was a building site for years. I nearly bankrupted myself buying Edward out when we divorced and Ellie always complained about being so far out of town, but I love it.”

“I'm not surprised; it's gorgeous.”

Serena pours milk into each mug of tea and hands one to Bernie. “Right, you're still soaking. I think we ought to get you a hot shower and some dry clothes.”

“Oh, I'm fine, honestly.”

“Nonsense, it's no trouble. Anyway, I don't fancy facing Henrik if I fell our trauma expert with pneumonia.”

Serena leads Bernie up the elegant curved staircase and across the wide landing. “Do you mind using my en suite? Only Jason gets tetchy if you rearrange his toiletries in the master bathroom.”

She ushers Bernie into her bedroom and then vanishes. Bernie stands rather awkwardly next to Serena's bed, taking in the high ceilinged walls painted in a soft duck egg blue; the large windows framed by silk curtains; the soft linen sheets on the bed. It feels intrusive somehow, as though she is invading Serena’s privacy, for all that she is here by invitation. Serena returns bearing towels and clothes. 

“There's a t-shirt and some joggers of Ellie’s here, and the hairdryer is on the dressing table. I'm going to nip out and get dinner while you shower. What do you fancy?”

“Cod and chips,” Bernie answers without hesitation. 

“A woman after my own heart,” Serena says with a wink and Bernie feels herself colour a little at Serena’s words, warmth settling in her chest. 

Serena then disappears back downstairs and Bernie retreats to the luxurious en suite bathroom.

When she ventures back into the kitchen twenty minutes later, she finds Jason hunting through the fridge. He looks up at her and frowns. 

“Dr Bernie, what are you doing here?”

“Jason, hello. Your Auntie Serena invited me to dinner. She's just gone to get it.”

He eyes her suspiciously. “Why are you wearing Elinor’s clothes?”

“I got caught in the rain.”

“You should carry an umbrella,” Jason advises. “Or wear a raincoat.”

“That's probably a good idea,” Bernie agrees. “Could you show me where things are? I thought I'd set the table.” 

Jason nods and retrieves plates and cutlery, arranging them precisely on the large oak dining table. Bernie locates the wine glasses and adds one each for her and Serena. She is just hunting for a corkscrew when Serena returns. 

“Well you look a bit dryer,” Serena observes. 

“And warmer. Thank you.” 

“Any time. Wine?”

“Yes please.” Bernie brandishes the corkscrew she's located in the drawer. Serena hands her a bottle of red and then busies herself doling out their orders; Bernie meanwhile pours wine for the two of them and Jason selects himself a can of lemonade from the fridge. 

The three of them take their seats and tuck into their meal. 

“This is delicious,” Bernie says after several appreciative mouthfuls of battered cod. “I hadn't realised how hungry I was.” 

“It's the best fish and chips in a five mile radius,” Serena informs her. “When Jason first moved in, we conducted an exhaustive survey of all the fish and chip shops in the vicinity.” She looks fondly at her nephew.

“We gave them all marks out of ten in a number of categories and then I made a spreadsheet,” Jason tells Bernie. 

“Well I certainly appreciate your efforts.” 

Bernie takes another mouthful of fish and the conversation turns to their respective days at work.

When dinner has been demolished, Bernie retreats to Serena’s comfortable living room, wine glass in hand. Jason settles himself in what Bernie learns is his usual armchair; the one nearest to the television. Bernie takes one end of the sofa, tucking her feet up under her, while Jason turns on the television and locates BBC2, ready for University Challenge. 

Serena joins them several minutes later, bearing the bottle of wine which she sets on the coffee table. She settles herself next to Bernie on the sofa.

“I hope you're not expecting too much of me, Jason,” Bernie says as the familiar theme music begins. “Quiz shows are not my forte.”

“Don't worry, we don't expect you to be of any assistance on popular culture,” Serena says drily. “Though I _am_ expecting you to help jog me with my rusty chemistry.”

Unfortunately, Bernie’s chemistry proves just as rusty as Serena’s and Jason takes an early lead. University Challenge is nearly over when a bleeping emanates from next to Bernie’s feet, interrupting Jeremy Paxman. Bernie digs her phone out of her bag. Marcus. 

_“Where are you?”_

“I’m with Serena.”

_“Still? How many drinks are you having? Dinner’s going to be ruined at this rate.”_

Bernie glances at her watch and realises that it’s nearly 9pm. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve already eaten.” 

_“Christ, Bernie, you might have told me.”_

“I’m sorry.” She means it; she really is sorry. “We got caught in the rain and I ended coming back here and I forgot to call you.”

 _“Well next time, could you try to be a bit more considerate?”_ He hangs up, and Bernie finds herself staring at the blank screen of her phone. 

“Problem?”

“Hmm? Oh, no.” Serena still looks concerned and Bernie wonders how much of Marcus’ half of the conversation she heard. _Enough_ , she imagines.

“Do you need to get home?” 

“No, not at all.” Bernie tosses her phone down on the coffee table. 

“Excellent. More wine?” Serena proffers the bottle and Bernie holds up her glass, which Serena fills with the deep red liquid. 

The television slips from University Challenge to a documentary about the First World War, which Bernie finds fascinating. Serena clearly doesn't, however, because after five minutes she retrieves a novel from under the coffee table and begins to read. This earns her a reproving stare from Jason. He coughs. 

“I know you're glaring at me, Jason,” Serena says, eyes intent on her book. 

“The documentary is about the Mesopotamian Campaign,” Jason tells her. “It’s a very important and often neglected aspect of the First World War.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Serena's eyes remain fixed on the page. 

“Tell her, Dr Bernie.” 

“It _is_ a very important aspect of the First World War,” Bernie agrees, slightly unnerved at being asked to intercede in this family dispute. “It's also very important for an understanding of the Middle East in the modern world…” She tails off in response to the glare she receives from Serena, which bears a startling resemblance to the one Jason had worn only seconds before. 

“Traitor,” Serena says, tossing a cushion at Bernie. “You're supposed to be my friend.” She places her finger between the pages of the book and looks up. “I fully accept the historical significance of the Mesopotamian Campaign. And I'm sure it's extremely interesting. But it's Friday night, it's been a long week, and I want to relax. I do not find war documentaries relaxing.”

Serena returns to her book. Jason gives her one last reproachful look and then turns his attention back to the television. Bernie leans back against the sofa cushions, glass of wine in hand, contemplating why the Campbell-Haynes household feels so much more relaxed than her own. Despite the apparent friction concerning television programming, there is an underlying affection and humour to the interaction between aunt and nephew. And even though they are doing different things - Jason watching his programme and Serena reading - they are doing these things together, in the same room. Somewhere along the line, she and Marcus seem to have lost that ease, that sense of companionship. 

At 10 pm Jason announces he's going to bed and bids them both goodnight, leaving Bernie and Serena sitting side by side in comfortable silence on the sofa. Bernie knows she really should be going. It's late. Not absurdly late by any means, but more than late enough given that they both have to work the following day. But she doesn't want to go. She wants to stay here with Serena; drinking a nice bottle of Shiraz in her friend’s living room. _I want to be here with Serena rather than at home with Marcus_. Bernie pushes the thought away; doesn't want to think about what it means. 

“I should go,” Bernie says eventually, though she makes no attempt to actually move. She suddenly sits bolt upright. “Oh, bugger.”

“What?”

“I completely forgot about my car. I've drunk far too much to drive.” She allows her head to fall back onto the sofa. “And it's too far to walk home. I'll have to ring a taxi and then pick it up tomorrow.” 

“Stay.” Serena lays a hand on her arm. “There are three perfectly serviceable empty bedrooms up there. You can drive home in the morning. Stay.”

Bernie hesitates. She should probably go home, to her own house, though she has no especial desire to do so. She also strongly suspects that Marcus will be upset if she doesn't come home for the night, though that too would be without rational foundation. 

“Ok, if you're sure it's not a problem; I'll stay.” 

As she taps out a quick text to Marcus, telling him of her plans, she feels unaccountably guilty not to be going home. _Why, though? I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm very sensibly not driving the car when I'm over the limit_. 

Despite her conviction as to the reasonableness of her actions, she doesn’t wait for Marcus’ response before she turns her phone off and slips it into the depths of her bag.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With eternal thanks to @ddagent for the punctuation lessons :)

It feels to Serena as though the trauma unit has become an established part of AAU almost overnight. As March rolls on, trauma patients become routine and the team adept at managing them. It feels like Bernie, too, has always been there: discussing surgical technique with Raf; beating Fletch at poker; bantering with Serena over patients in theatre. She could almost forget that this isn't permanent; that Bernie’s tenure in AAU is only temporary. And when she does remember, she pushes it to the back of her mind; she doesn't want to think about what the ward will be like when Bernie has gone back to the Afghan desert, leaving them all, leaving _Serena_ , behind. 

_Besides, it isn't worth worrying about yet, she tells herself. Bernie won't be leaving for ages. She's here until the end of May. That's months away. And there are far more pressing things to be concerning myself with. Things like this damn rota._

The rota in question is printed onto a sheet of paper lying on the desk in front of her. Serena scowls at it. So much has been scribbled out and so many annotations made in the empty spaces that it has become difficult to read. She peers at one particularly illegible comment. No, she still can’t make head nor tail of what it says. It’s moments like these that make her immensely grateful that she no longer has the administrative burden of being Deputy CEO. The admin inherent in running the ward is quite enough all on its own frankly. 

The door opens and she looks up. Bernie enters, bearing two cups from _Pulses_ and a paper bag. She sets the bag and one of the cups in front of Serena, before perching on the desk in front of her. 

“Here, I thought you could use it.”

Serena takes a grateful sip of coffee and peers into the paper bag. “Oh, bless you.” She removes the maple and pecan Danish from the bag and bites into the buttery pastry. “That's delicious. How did you know I needed one of these?” 

Bernie grins. “Aside from the fact that you cast longing looks at them every morning when purchasing your coffee?” 

“Aside from that.”

“I peeked in earlier and you looked as though someone had run over your favourite childhood pet. Has Hanssen asked you to review the entire hospital budget by tomorrow morning?”

“No, he's asked me to arrange the April rota.” Serena takes another sizeable mouthful of maple and pecan for comfort.

“Ah, suddenly the wailing and gnashing of teeth makes sense.” Bernie sips at her coffee and peers at the piece of paper on Serena’s desk. “Is it really as bad as all that?”

“It includes Easter.”

“And that’s a problem because?”

“Because, predictably, everybody wants to take time off over Easter to spend it with their families.” Serena rests the pastry on top of its paper bag on the desk. “And because three of the juniors – including Raf – haven’t used their allotted leave for the year, and the leave year expires at the end of March.”

Bernie looks at her in bemusement. “I don’t see how that affects the April rota.”

“Because as they haven’t used up their annual leave and it’s currently March 19th, they’re going to have to carry it over into next year. But under Trust policy, leave carried over from one year to the next has to be used by the end of April.”

“So you have to let them have the time off.”

“Yes. But I suspect the only way it’s going to be possible to staff the ward is by personally working double shifts over the whole weekend.” 

Bernie breaks a piece of pastry from what remains of Serena’s Danish. “What about me?”

“What about you?”

“When am I working over Easter?” She takes another bite. 

“You’re not.”

“Well rota me on then.”

Serena finishes the last mouthful of maple and pecan before Bernie can steal any more. “I can’t do that. You’re not even proper ward staff, not technically. You’re not here to deal with bank holiday over indulgence.”

“Why? Make the most of me while I’m here.”

Serena smiles. It's so very typical of Bernie to try and solve the problem personally; anyone else would be beating a hasty retreat from the office before Serena asked them to work an extra shift. It's so nice to have someone in her corner for once, backing her up; it’s hard not to think about about how much she's going to miss Bernie when she does things like this. “It's a very generous offer, but I can’t ask you to do that. Surely you want to spend the Easter weekend with Marcus and the kids?” 

“You’re not asking, I’m offering. And it’s not an issue. Cam’s going away on some rock climbing weekend with his mates and Charlotte says she’s spending the vacation in Oxford. Neither of them will be home. I’ll work: let Raf have the time off.” 

Bernie stands, brushing crumbs from her jeans, making to cross the office to her own desk. Serena reaches out to catch her hand. “ _Thank you._ It's very kind of you and I can't begin to explain how grateful I am. I don't know what I'm going to do without you when you leave.” 

For a few seconds, Serena could swear she sees Bernie’s face drop. But she must be mistaken because, when she looks again, Bernie is wearing a reassuring smile. Serena takes up her pen and amends the rota. Perhaps she'll manage to get the wretched thing to Henrik by lunchtime after all. 

***  
Bernie doesn't mention that she's working the whole of the Easter weekend to Marcus. She tells herself that the omission isn't deliberate: it simply slipped her mind; she got distracted and forgot to mention it. But in truth she knows she's concealing it on purpose; keeping quiet because she knows Marcus won't like her working. He'll say that she's a consultant, an external contractor, not even a permanent member of staff: why on earth should she be working unpopular shifts like the Easter weekend? And he’d be right, of course. There is no reason, no real reason, for her to work antisocial shifts. She's not required to and the whole point of her being in Holby is to spend time with her family, with Marcus. But the lure of spending a whole weekend working with Serena is just too tempting; Serena's company too enjoyable. Bernie doesn't want to examine too closely why she finds the prospect so enticing. 

“I've been thinking about Easter weekend,” Marcus announces as they clear the table after breakfast a fortnight before the event. “I thought, as the kids aren't around, well, why don't we go away for a couple of days?”

“Ah.” Bernie stacks the cereal bowls and coffee mugs in the dishwasher. “I was meaning to talk to you about that. I'm working the Easter weekend.” 

“Oh bloody hell, Bernie. I've got the weekend off!” Marcus relocates the bowls from the lower rack of the dishwasher to the top. 

“You’re able to take the weekend off because most of your work is elective,” Bernie retorts. “I'm a trauma specialist: traumatic injuries don't take bank holidays.” 

Marcus glares at her and Bernie feels a pang of regret for her sarcastic rejoinder. His disappointment is not unreasonable, after all. 

“Well if we can't go away, let's go out for a meal then,” Marcus suggests. “There's that new Thai place Cam was talking about.”

Bernie takes a cloth from the sink and proceeds to wipe the crumbs from the kitchen surfaces, her back to Marcus. “I can't; I'm working the whole weekend.” 

“What, all of it?” 

She nods.

“But why, for fuck’s sake? You're a consultant, not an F1.”

Bernie shrugs. “Lots of people have leave due; I volunteered.” 

Marcus’ face turns from an angry red to something nearer purple. He slams his mug of coffee down, causing the liquid within to lurch out and spill onto the freshly wiped table. Ignoring the mess, he turns and marches towards the door. 

“Where are you going?” Bernie asks Marcus’ retreating back.

“To the golf club.”

“Because I'm working next weekend? Don't you think that's a bit childish?”

Marcus turns; his face a mask of barely contained fury. “I'm childish? You know what’s childish, Bernie? Childish is spending all your time at work instead of dealing with whatever it is that means you don't want to be at home.”

He stalks out of the kitchen, and, moments later, Bernie hears the slamming of the front door followed by the crunch of tyres on the gravel driveway. _Honestly, if he's going to behave like that, I'm very glad that I'll be spending my bank holiday elbow deep in trauma cases._

***  
On the morning of Easter Sunday, Serena is pulled from sleep at 4am by the combined and persistent bleeping of her pager and her mobile. She switches on the bedside lamp and stares, bleary eyed, at her phone. At this hour it’s either the hospital, or a drunken ex-husband. Fortunately, the caller ID reads ‘Henrik Hanssen’. She accepts the call. 

“Henrik? What's happened?” Serena switches to speakerphone as she hunts through her drawers for clean underwear. 

“There's been a fire at an hotel in the centre of town.”

Serena pulls off her pyjamas and stuffs them haphazardly under her pillow. “How many casualties?” 

“It's unclear. There are at least two major burns victims, but there are also a number of people trapped inside due to a staircase collapse.” 

“How many are St James’ taking?” She dresses quickly, in yesterday's black trousers and a clean blouse pulled from the wardrobe, before sitting down on the edge of the bed to pull on her socks.

There is a pause before Henrik replies. “St James’ is closed to emergencies: they have a suspected outbreak of C.Diff in the Emergency Department.”

Serena doesn't ask about the status of their own ED. She knows perfectly well that even Connie Beauchamp’s lean efficiency is hard pushed to keep the ED afloat this weekend. A four day closure of GP surgeries and walk in centres has resulted in an influx of minor illnesses and injuries which the department is struggling to manage. 

“I'll be in as soon as I can.”

Serena ends the call to Henrik and makes her way down the stairs, where she pops two slices of bread into the toaster: experience of major incidents telling her that it's likely to be many hours before she gets the chance to eat again. She scribbles a brief note to Jason, explaining where she's gone and apologising for forgoing their planned Easter Sunday breakfast of pancakes. A year ago, she would have been worried that the change of plan would upset him. But in the time that they've lived together, Jason has acclimatised to the fluctuations in her schedule; accepting that her work will sometimes require her to cancel or alter their arrangements. She puts the Easter egg she's bought him on the kitchen table, and props the note up against it. 

The streets are quiet as Serena navigates the route to the hospital. It's a quick drive at this time of night. She manoeuvres the car into her parking space, grateful to its proximity to the entrance, before making her way to AAU. 

The ward is chaotic. Staff weave around patients and emergency service personnel. The bays are full, with several additional patients on trolleys filling the corridors. At the desk, Lou is valiantly trying to marshal the nurses into order, but not entirely succeeding. Serena rather wishes Fletch were on duty, though goodness knows he deserves his weekend off with the children after the stresses of the last few months. 

Lou finishes allocating tasks to the nursing staff and proceeds to give Serena an explanation of the injuries of the most critical cases: two guests who’d been trapped by the staircase collapse, an older man with a crush injury to the leg, and a young woman with a suspected abdominal bleed. Serena listens carefully; interrupting to ask questions and look at scans. She is just examining the leg injury when Bernie barrels through the doors of AAU. A minute later, she appears at Serena’s elbow. Bernie doesn't say anything; simply peers over Serena’s shoulder at the leg wound, and nodding at her observation that they need to operate as soon as possible. 

“Sorry to have to drag you in at this hour.”

Bernie shakes her head with a touch of impatience. “Don't be silly. I’m happy to be here.”

Serena sighs. “We have two who are critical: this one and an abdominal bleed. But we only have one theatre and we can't transfer to Keller because Sacha’s dealing with a triple A that was referred from the ED yesterday. And then we have a further 26 patients – some of them little more than triaged – crammed into a 24 bed ward. And there’s not enough juniors…”

Bernie rests a hand on Serena’s arm. “Serena, don't panic. We have a major incident plan. The staff have all been well trained. We've prepared for this. We’ll cope. You'll cope. Let's examine this abdominal bleed and take it from there.” 

***  
Many hours later, Bernie shifts her weight slightly from one foot to the other as she carefully retracts the skin around the leg injury. Serena is completing the insertion of a graft into the damaged femoral artery; it's a finicky job and she has to work quickly to avoid tissue necrosis. Still, this patient is at least stable, which is more than can be said for the girl with the abdominal bleed: despite Bernie and Serena’s combined best efforts, she had still been touch and go when they'd transferred her up to ITU. 

“You got here in the end, then?” Serena looks up at her over her scrub mask, a hint of amusement visible. 

Bernie starts; narrowly avoiding jerking the retractor. “I'm sorry?”

“I seem to recall that, several months ago, you asked me for some reading material about arterial grafts. You said you'd come and peer over my shoulder sometime. And here you are, peering.” 

“I'm not peering; I'm admiring your handiwork. And I'm nowhere near your shoulder.” 

“Well, peering or observing, can you make yourself useful? Finger just there, please.”

Bernie does as bidden and Serena finishes stitching the graft, before deftly closing the wound. She stays to watch. She doesn't have to; she isn't needed here. She could – possibly should – go out into the ward and attend to the other patients. But Bernie stays and watches Serena; enjoys a few minutes of peace in her company. 

When Serena has finished suturing, they exit the double doors of the theatre together; stripping off gloves and masks. Serena stretches and groans. 

“You ok?”

“Yes, just a bit stiff.” Serena yawns. “And a bit tired.”

“Shall I go grab us a coffee?” 

“Oh, yes please.” Serena’s smile of gratitude is almost dazzling. “I'll go and take stock of the ward.”

The queue at _Pulses_ is predictably long and it's nearly half an hour before Bernie makes her way back to AAU with a takeaway cup in each hand. She stands by the desk and scans the ward, looking for Serena. 

She is by the bedside of one of the firefighters. Moss? Morris? Something like that. He had been trapped by the staircase collapse, suffering minor burns and some smoke inhalation. He's saying something to Serena; looking up at her and smiling. Serena replies, and smiles in return. Another smile, and a remark, and Serena laughs.

_He's flirting with her._

Bernie feels a flash of anger at the realisation. And then a knot forms in her stomach.

Not wishing to spend any longer than necessary watching Serena and her firefighter, Bernie leaves Serena’s latte at the desk with Lou. She then busies herself with the patients in the side room, before retreating to the office. She drops into her chair and leans back. 

_Why does someone flirting with Serena incite such anger?_ She's certainly not jealous of Serena. God, no. She has no desire to be propositioned at work by emergency services personnel. _Yet, when was the last time someone flirted with me?_ She can’t recall and feels a brief pang of disappointment. She certainly can’t remember Marcus engaging in anything that might be considered flirting in the recent past. But, much as a bit of flirtation might be rather fun, Bernie realises she isn’t jealous of her friend on that score. 

_She's jealous of the firefighter._ Jealous of the firefighter who's flirting with Serena; eliciting her smiles, her laughter. For a brief moment, Bernie recalls her first year at Oxford and another face – young, smiling and beautiful – framed by golden hair. But she has learned it does no good to think about it; to ponder things which are not and never were. She pushes the memory, along with thoughts of Serena and the firefighter, firmly to one side and turns her attention to writing up her notes. 

Bernie is still engaged in this onerous task when Serena enters the office half an hour later. She drops into her chair with a groan. 

“What time is it?”

Bernie glances at her watch. “Nearly 7.” 

Serena groans again and then Bernie’s stomach rumbles loudly. She flashes Serena an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I haven't eaten since dinner last night.”

“Bernie! What were you thinking? Why didn't you have breakfast?” 

Bernie shrugs. “Didn't think about it.” 

Serena’s face is a picture of outrage. “You'll make yourself ill.”

“Don't worry about me; I've plenty of experience working long hours on not much sustenance.” Bernie pauses, thinking. “Do you need to get back for Jason?”

Serena shakes her head. “No. He's been with Alan today and he's staying the night there. Thought he might as well enjoy his bank holiday weekend.”

“Do you fancy grabbing a bite to eat, then?” It’s late and she’s exhausted, but Bernie doesn’t want to forgo Serena’s company just yet. A meal and a glass of wine with her friend seems the perfect way to round off the day.

Serena gives her a warm smile. “I’d love to.” 

***  
The following morning, Serena climbs out of her car and squints into the warm spring sunshine. She winces in the bright light and digs in her bag for her sunglasses, perching them on her nose. She then makes her way to the main entrance and moves, almost on autopilot, to Pulses. Serena requests her usual double shot latte and adds a pain au chocolat to her order for good measure: she’s going to need fat and sugar to get her through this shift. 

Serena spots a familiar blonde head making its way over to the counter. She approaches Bernie with a smile on her face. 

Serena brandishes the paper bag. “It's medicinal, and I blame you.” 

“I only suggested we go out for a quick bite after a long shift.” 

“At an Italian restaurant with an extensive wine list.”

“You could have ordered by the glass.” 

“Oh, I'm sorry. Serena Campbell: have we met?” Serena holds out her hand to Bernie in mock greeting. Bernie’s expression is solemn, but her eyes are sparkling with suppressed mirth. 

Bernie takes Serena’s proffered hand in hers, looks into her eyes and smiles. Serena feels her heart lurch. 

And with sudden clarity, she _knows._

They stand in the middle of _Pulses_ – holding hands – for far longer than the occasion warrants. 

And Serena _knows._

Her fingers feel as though they’re on fire. She pulls them away, a little too quickly to be polite, and glances at her watch. 

“Goodness is that the time. I’m terribly sorry but I'm going to have to go. I was due to see Hanssen five minutes ago. Could you hold the fort on the ward?”

She ignores Bernie’s bemused expression and bolts to the stairwell, climbing all the way to the roof. Once there she walks to the edge; hands clutching at the railing as she looks out over Holby, bathed in spring sunshine. 

_I’m attracted to Bernie_ , she thinks, the idea rolling round and round her head. _I'm attracted to Bernie._ The thought has struck her so suddenly and so completely that she almost can't believe she hadn't realised it before. It seems, in retrospect, rather laughable that she hadn't. 

_She's a woman. I don't fancy women._

You did once, sneers a traitorous voice in her head. 

_It's a crush, just a harmless crush_ , she tells herself. 

_A crush on a woman_ , the voice whispers.

_She's married_ , Serena's conscience objects. 

_But not happily_ , responds the devilish part of her brain. _You know she's not happy. You can see she's not happy._

__

__

_It doesn't matter_ , she argues with herself. _She's married and all you have is a silly crush._

Someone – Serena suspects it might have been Dominic Copeland – has left a couple of deckchairs on the roof. Serena sinks into one, sips her coffee, and picks at the pain au chocolat. As she chews the buttery pastry, she tries to rationalise her crush as symptomatic of other things: Jason’s ease with Bernie; the closeness of the friendship they've developed; her own lack of romantic attachments following the disaster that was Robbie. But she's not sure it is any of that, not really. She's simply attracted to Bernie. And she doesn’t have a bloody clue what to do about it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing writing partner @ddagent put in so much work on this chapter and it’s taken several months (seriously) to get it right. She’s absolutely fantastic and extremely good at calling me out when I’m running away from things I find difficult. She makes me a much better writer and I don’t know where I’d be without her. Thank you sweetie xx.

In the aftermath of her realisation in _Pulses_ , Serena is glad that she and Bernie aren't rostered to work together until the following Monday; giving her some time and space to regroup and gather her thoughts. She tries very hard not to think about Bernie, and in the main she succeeds. Although Bernie texts her once or twice - and she does reply - she doesn't go out of her way to sustain the conversation like she would have done before. 

Instead, Serena concentrates on spending time with Jason: taking him on the promised trip to London; visiting the Natural History Museum, and learning more than she realised there was to know about insects in the process. On the spur of the moment, she persuades Jason to accompany her on a visit to Elinor in Cambridge, and despite his reservations about spontaneous trips, the three of them have a lovely time. Elinor is surprisingly welcoming and hospitable and, in an uncharacteristic display of familial affection, keen to join them for punting along the Backs of the Cam and Evensong at King’s College Chapel. As Serena drives away from a waving Elinor on Sunday evening, she reflects with satisfaction that the weekend has been so busy she’s barely thought about Bernie. 

All in all, by the time Monday morning rolls around, Serena has almost convinced herself that her silly crush was just a figment of her imagination, and not something to worry about at all. 

_Almost_. But not quite. Because at 8.35am, Serena looks up from her desk to see Bernie shouldering their office door; a coffee cup clutched in each hand and a bright smile on her face. 

__

_Shit_.

***  
Something is wrong with Serena. Bernie has been pondering this for the better part of a week, ever since Serena made her precipitous exit from _Pulses_ under the pretence of a meeting with Hanssen; a clearly fictitious meeting, because not even workaholic Swedish CEOs come in on Bank Holidays. Ever since then, there has been something ‘off’ about Serena. She’s been perfectly pleasant, but a distance has stretched between them. Serena’s stopped texting, for a start. Bernie tries to tell herself that this is meaningless; there’s no reason for Serena to be in constant contact on her days off. Days she is spending with Jason; a fact Bernie only learns when Raf mentions it in passing. Bernie’s confused by the sudden distance and non-communicativeness; can’t for the life of her think what she might have done to offend Serena. Still, today Serena is back, and Bernie will endeavour to repair whatever it is that’s gone wrong; starting with a pit-stop at _Pulses_ to pick up coffee before she reaches the office. 

Bernie enters the office with a latte in each hand. Serena looks up and smiles briefly, before the smile flickers away and she looks back down at the folder of notes in front of her. Bernie sighs. 

“I brought you a coffee.” She sets both drinks down on Serena’s desk, before pulling off her coat and hanging it up. 

_Nothing._

“I was wondering if I could ask a favour.” Bernie perches on the edge of Serena’s desk and waits for her to look up. “Charlotte’s coming home today, just for a couple of days. Could I take off a bit early? I’d like to make the most of the time with her; have a family meal this evening.”

The tension slips from Serena’s face and she breaks into a smile of genuine warmth. “Of course. I know how much you've missed her. I'm glad she's visiting.” 

And then the smile fades again, and Serena stares fixedly at her computer screen. 

Bernie wonders, once more, what has upset Serena so much. Wonders what she can do to put things right. She finds that it pains her to see Serena unhappy. It hurts in a way that reminds her of the feeling she used to get in her gut when Cameron and Charlotte were small, and came home from school saying ‘George pushed me off the climbing frame’ or ‘Amelia says she isn't my friend anymore.’ It’s an odd feeling; a sense of vicarious emotional pain. She can't recall ever feeling it before, except in relation to her children.

A brief knock is followed by the door opening and Morven pokes her head around. 

“Sorry to disturb you, Ms Wolfe, but Keller just phoned. Mr Griffin’s in theatre and the patient has a major bleed. He needs an extra pair of hands.” 

“Go,” Serena says with a wave of her hand. “We’re quiet; we’ll manage without you.”

So, with a final concerned look at Serena, Bernie follows Morven out of the office and heads upstairs to Keller. 

***  
Bernie’s absence from the ward is a welcome relief. Serena is terrified that every glance, every word to her colleague, will somehow reveal her feelings. At least while Bernie’s safely tucked away upstairs, Serena can concentrate on work. 

She's in the middle of diagnosing a patient with gallstones when the red phone rings. Raf approaches her just as she is giving Lou orders for bloods. 

“Adult trauma, ETA ten minutes. Young woman in an RTC. Do you want me to page Ms Wolfe?”

“No, she's upstairs assisting on Ric’s liver op. We’ll fly solo: going to have to try it sometime!” 

Serena finishes with her patient and gowns up ready for the arrival of the RTC. She and Raf are waiting by the doors of AAU when the paramedics arrive; the patient on a trolley, accompanied by a man in his early thirties wearing a blood spattered t-shirt. 

“What have we got?” Serena asks as she pulls on her gloves.

“Patient is a 21 year old female, involved in an RTC at high speed. She was the passenger. Unconscious at the scene. Possible abdominal trauma and unexplained bleeding.”

Serena looks at the young woman on the trolley. There are minor scalp lacerations and her blonde hair is matted with blood. Nevertheless she looks awfully familiar; something about her nose and the set of her cheekbones.

“Raf,” Serena says with mounting horror. “Do we have a name?”

“Her name is Charlotte Dunn,” says the man with the bloody t-shirt.

“Page Ms Wolfe,” Serena barks in response. 

Raf stares at her in confusion. “But I thought you said—”

“Page Ms Wolfe. _Now_. Charlotte is her daughter.”

Raf’s eyes widen in shock and he sprints off in the direction of the desk. Serena tries to quell her rising panic. “Right, let's get Miss Dunn into the trauma bay. And Lou, could you take Mr— ”

“Poole,” the bloodstained man supplies. 

“Could you take Mr Poole to bay five?”

In the trauma bay, Serena orders bloods and a fast scan. There is free fluid in the abdomen but that doesn't explain the extent of the blood loss. Raf meets Serena’s eyes in silent conversation. “Ok,” she says at last. “Can we prep her for a trauma laparotomy please? And cross match six units.”

As she scrubs up, Serena feels her gut clench. Only once has she felt like this before surgery; when James Fielding had attacked Fletch. Then her concern had been for Fletch, but also for his children: Evie’s face haunting her as she sutured the wounds from the screwdriver. She doesn't know Charlotte, of course - has never even met her - but Charlotte is Bernie’s and Bernie is so very dear to her. She tries and fails to avoid imagining how it would feel if it were Elinor lying on the table; Elinor with the unknown injury causing blood to leech into her abdominal cavity. 

Serena needs to compartmentalise. She needs to forget that this is the daughter of her closest friend; a girl the same age as her own daughter; a young woman with a wonderful future ahead of her. Here and now, she is a patient and Serena is a surgeon. 

The doors to the scrub room open and Bernie hurtles in, eyes wide and fearful. “What happened?”

“RTC. I'm not sure of the details. She was the passenger.”

“How bad is it?”

“There’s abdominal trauma and unexplained bleeding. I won't know exactly what we're dealing with until I get in there.” 

“I'm scrubbing in.”

“No, you're not.” The rebuke is louder and firmer than Serena intends it to be. “You're her mother,” she adds more gently. “You know the rules and you know they exist for a very good reason. You need to trust me.”

“I do, Serena, but—” Bernie’s voice begins to crack and her eyes are damp. In this moment, she is far from the calm, collected army major to whom Serena is accustomed. 

Serena aches to reach out to Bernie: to touch her; to provide some measure of physical comfort. But she can't: she is scrubbed up and can't contaminate herself. And she really needs to get to Charlotte.

“I'll look after her, Bernie,” she promises. Bernie meets her eyes, giving her a vigorous nod. “You need to ring Marcus,” Serena adds and Bernie nods again. She backs out of the scrub room and into theatre where the unconscious Charlotte is waiting. As Lou helps her into her surgical gown, Serena tries to erase the image of the distraught Bernie from her mind; to restrain the desire to hold her tight and tell her that everything is going to be ok. _I need to be a surgeon today. Not a friend, not a—_ Serena can’t finish the thought. Anyway, comforting Bernie is Marcus’ role. He’s Bernie’s husband. Charlotte’s father. The most useful thing Serena can do at this moment is to focus on the procedure and keep Charlotte alive. 

***  
Bernie is pacing the floor of the office she shares with Serena when Marcus finally arrives. Serena has been operating on Charlotte for an hour and a half and Bernie can’t understand what’s taking so long. Surely she should have finished by now. _She's not a trauma surgeon,_ whispers a tiny voice at the back of her brain. _Is she really the best person to be operating on Charlotte? Yes, yes she is,_ Bernie argues back. _She's one of the best surgeons you know and she’ll fight for Lottie as if she were her own daughter._

“Bern?” Marcus’ eyes are wild, his tone frantic. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I was in surgery.” He crosses the room to envelop her in a hug. She forces herself to stand still and accept it but she is itching to be mobile. 

“It's ok,” she says. “She's still in theatre.”

“Is she…” Marcus tails off.

“Serena's got her,” Bernie replies. “She’ll be ok.”

They sit for some minutes, before a knock at the door heralds Fletch with cups of tea. They drink it in silence; Bernie continuing to pace while Marcus stares at his watch. Bernie tries to avoid watching the clock: she knows that every minute which passes indicates a greater degree of complexity to the surgery; that they long ago passed the threshold of ‘straightforward’ and entered the zone of ‘complications.’

At last, Serena emerges from theatre; still in surgical scrubs; mask dangling from her hand.

“The abdominal bleeding was caused by a tear in the spleen, which I've repaired,” she says without preamble. 

“So she’s ok?” Marcus asks.

Serena bites her lip. “She's still in theatre. In addition to the spleen, there was a significant amount of vaginal bleeding.” Her eyes shift to Bernie and Bernie understands at once what Serena is about to say. “Derwood Thompson is operating, and he’ll do everything he can, but if he can't stop the blood loss—”

“He’ll have to perform a hysterectomy,” Bernie finishes tonelessly.

Serena nods.

“But that doesn't make any sense,” Marcus objects. “Why would there be significant blood loss unless…” He stops and Bernie sees the colour drain from him completely. 

Serena’s voice is quiet. “Derwood believes that Charlotte was in the first trimester of pregnancy.” 

“But she can't be!” 

“Oh for god’s sake, Marcus, why not?” Bernie snaps. “She's not a little girl. She's 21 years old. You're not seriously under the impression that she's not sexually active?” 

“No, I'm under the impression she has more sense,” Marcus retorts, his face flushed with anger. “She's at Oxford University, for fuck’s sake; both her parents are doctors. She's not ignorant of the facts of life.”

Bernie slumps back in her chair. “Mistakes can happen to anyone.”

“Well, maybe if she’d had proper guidance from a mother who was actually _there_ when she was growing up, mistakes _wouldn't_ happen.” The jibe has barely left Marcus’ mouth before he pales. “God, Bern, I'm so sorry, I—”

Bernie stares at him in shock, torn between humiliation and anger. 

Serena, thankfully, interjects before more can be said. “I think apportioning blame is unhelpful.” She turns to Bernie. “I need to get back to Charlotte, but I need your permission to proceed with the hysterectomy, in the last resort.”

“Of course.” For a few seconds Bernie’s eyes meet Serena’s, and in those moments Bernie can see beyond Serena’s mask of brisk professionalism to the emotions beneath: worry, pain, affection. It calms her. 

Serena gives her the tiniest of nods, and then shuts the door behind her; leaving Marcus and Bernie alone once more.

“Bern,” he begins, reaching out towards her. “I really am sorry. I didn't mean it.”

She twitches her hand away from his. “It doesn't matter,” she replies dully. But it does. Of course it does.

They resume their silent waiting. Bernie has never been so conscious of the time which surgery takes. She has always been inside the theatre; the one in control. She has never before understood the sheer agony of waiting and being unable to do. 

Eventually, Serena returns to inform them that Derwood has stopped the bleeding; that a hysterectomy has not been necessary; that she fully expects Charlotte to make a complete recovery. Lou shows them to a side room and Marcus and Bernie take seats either side of their unconscious daughter. 

“We should phone Cam,” Marcus says eventually. Have minutes passed? Hours? 

“Yes.” Bernie rises to her feet, glad of an excuse to leave the room. “I'll call him.” 

She doesn't wait for Marcus to respond; instead she walks rapidly from the room, through the ward and out of the doors. She doesn't stop until she is outside in the cool of the night air; sinking to sit on the bench to one side of the hospital entrance. She fumbles as she removes her phone from her pocket and scrolls through her list of contacts. Cameron doesn't answer and she leaves a voicemail asking him to call her back as soon as possible. Then she leans forward, head resting in her hands, exhaling slowly. 

Bernie is used to being in charge, in control. She is unaccustomed to being so wholly uncertain of how to proceed. She is scared for Charlotte; angry with Marcus; furious with herself. She needs to see Serena; knows that Serena will anchor her. 

***  
Serena leans heavily on the railings, staring out at the sky. She’d been slightly surprised to exit the staircase and discover night had fallen; all sense of time had been lost in those long hours of surgery; consumed as she had been both by her fight to save Charlotte and her worry for Bernie. But Charlotte is safe; will make a full recovery. And Bernie has, thank god, been spared the unimaginable pain of losing her daughter. Serena’s heart constricts at the thought of it; the unending agony of the death of your child. She shivers; the thin scrubs offering little protection against the chill of the evening. 

Behind her, Serena hears the creak of the heavy metal door to the stairwell and turns her head to see Bernie crossing the roof to join her, hands jammed into the pockets of her hoodie. She looks exhausted; worn by the stress of the day. 

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs?” 

“I needed a breath of fresh air.” Bernie delves into her pocket and retrieves her lighter and a packet of cigarettes, her eyes fixed on the view over Holby. “I needed a friend.” 

Serena watches as Bernie fumbles with the lighter and takes a deep drag on the cigarette, the tension in her shoulders lifting visibly as she exhales. Serena has always enjoyed watching Bernie smoke; appreciated the casual elegance of Bernie with a cigarette between her fingertips; the palpable enjoyment she takes from this forbidden pleasure. She almost makes the habit look appealing. 

“Don’t tell Marcus,” Bernie mutters, clearly mistaking the expression on Serena’s face for censure. 

“I won't if you give me one.”

“You don't smoke.” Bernie looks askance but there’s a hint of teasing in her tone.

“After today, I think I might start.” Serena plucks a cigarette from the proffered packet and puts it to her lips. Bernie raises the hand holding the lighter but, instead of passing it to Serena, she flicks at the wheel; holding up the orange flame to light the tip. It's oddly intimate. Serena shivers again; this time it has nothing to do with the cold. 

“Thank you seems such an inadequate word,” Bernie begins, “but I am so grateful for what you did tonight.”

Serena covers Bernie’s free hand with her own; entwining their fingers. “It's my job. You'd have done the same, if it had been Ellie.”

“I felt so helpless, Serena. I'm a trauma surgeon and I couldn't do anything.”

“You're her mother. You couldn't be a doctor too; not today.” 

They stand there in silence for several minutes, hands joined. 

“He’s her tutor, you know,” Bernie says eventually. 

“Sorry?” Serena presumes there’s a reason for the apparent non-sequitur. 

“The father, the driver of the car: he's her tutor.”

“Wow.” Suddenly the pieces click into place. Charlotte’s sudden withdrawal from her family; the desire to spend the university vacations in Oxford. 

Bernie takes another drag of her cigarette. “I should have guessed, really. She talks about him a lot. I didn't think anything of it; thought it was good that she liked him; got on well with him. I was pleased she had a tutor she found so inspiring.”

“It's a powerful combination. Attractive man, brilliant mind, not that much older, in a position of authority. She's not the first to go down that road.”

“He's married, Serena.” 

Bernie’s disapproval of her daughter embarking on a relationship with a married lover is palpable. Serena swallows. _What would she think of me? If she knew how I really felt about her?_ Carefully, she releases her fingers from Bernie’s; edges back a fraction. 

“What did I do wrong?”

“You didn't do anything wrong.” Serena fights to keep her own voice calm. “At the end of the day, they have to make their own choices, their own mistakes.” 

“Maybe if I'd been here more. Marcus—”

“Marcus is wrong,” Serena says firmly. “Bernie, she's a young woman. She makes her own decisions. Your job is to pick up the pieces if it all falls apart.”

“I thought I was going to lose her, Serena.” With that admission, Bernie seems to crumble before Serena’s eyes, tears falling freely as she breaks into noisy sobs. 

“Oh, Bernie.” Serena closes the gap between them; her resolve to impose distance forgotten in the impulse to comfort. It’s a shock to see her unflappable friend display such vulnerability. She wraps her arms around Bernie; holding her tightly. “She's going to be fine, I promise you.” 

“I- I know,” Bernie hiccups. “I think it's just relief.” 

Serena simply holds Bernie. She allows herself to savour the feeling of Bernie in her arms; to take comfort in it after the stresses and exhaustion of the day; to feel Bernie’s warmth soothe her. _I’m comforting her: is it so wrong if it comforts me, too?_ When the sobbing subsides, Serena gently disentangles herself. She sweeps Bernie’s hair from her face with her fingers, before brushing away the tear rolling down Bernie’s cheek. 

“Thank you. I knew you'd make me feel better: you always do.” Bernie swipes at her eyes. “I must look a mess.”

“You look beautiful. You _always_ look beautiful.” The words fall from Serena’s lips without thinking; Bernie’s eyes widening in disbelief.

_How can she not realise how lovely she is?_ Serena holds Bernie’s gaze; watches as her expression softens into an embarrassed smile. The moment stretches between them, unyielding. Serena’s hand is still cupping Bernie’s cheek; her eyes intent upon Bernie’s tearstained face; her lips a few centimetres from Bernie’s own. Soft, thin lips; lips that Serena has spent the past week trying very hard not to think about. 

Serena thinks about those lips now, as she leans forward and closes the gap between them. 

The kiss is chaste; a gentle touching of Serena’s mouth to Bernie’s. It lasts only a few seconds before Serena pulls back. Her stomach churns at her foolish impulse; suddenly struck by _guilt, embarrassment, anger._ But all are forgotten when she sees Bernie’s face. Serena looks into Bernie’s eyes and sees her own emotions mirrored there. Astonishment. Affection. _Desire._

Until this moment, it had never occurred to Serena that her feelings for Bernie might not be entirely one-sided; that some part of her affection might be reciprocated. She’d been certain that Bernie would be horrified if she knew of Serena’s feelings; had been desperate to conceal them lest she destroy the friendship they had built. But suddenly Bernie is pulling Serena closer and pressing their lips together once more. Serena is aware only of the softness of Bernie’s lips between her own; the taste of cigarettes on her breath.

One hand slides to Bernie’s neck, the silky strands of her hair entangling in Serena’s fingertips. The other hand drops to her waist, her fingers tracing Bernie’s spine through the flimsy cotton of her scrubs. Bernie clutches their bodies together, and Serena can feel the swell of Bernie’s breasts pressed against her chest; the angle of Bernie’s hips against her own. Serena isn’t sure how long they kiss for, only that she loses all track of time; all conscious thought of anything but herself and Bernie. 

And then Bernie moans into Serena’s mouth; a glorious sound of desire and arousal. 

_You’re kissing a married woman_.

As suddenly as it had started, their kiss stops. Astonishment, affection and desire all forgotten; guilt, embarrassment, and anger now flooded through her. 

“I'm sorry, I-I can't do this.” 

Serena turns on her heel and bolts across the roof, leaving Bernie alone in the darkness.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final scene went through many many drafts. If you can think of an angle from which the kiss might have been considered, I probably wrote a draft that way. The end result is entirely to the credit of @ddagent, who told me it needed to be from Serena’s perspective (she was absolutely right) and then coached me through rewriting it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies: it's been ages since I last updated this. Summer became very busy (holiday/family wedding/work) and I needed a bit of a break from my self-imposed posting schedule. Also @ddagent definitely deserved a break from her onerous editing duties. And the end of Chapter 9 felt like a natural break ;)
> 
> However, on we go. I'm afraid there is a fair amount of angst in the next few chapters, but I promise they will reach a happy ending.

Bernie stands immobile beside the railing as her friend – _her dearest friend_ – hurtles across the roof towards the stairs. Her heart pounds with rising panic. _What just happened? Oh god– what have I done?_

I just kissed Serena Campbell. 

_Because she kissed you first,_ whispers the calming voice in her head; a voice which has come to bear a striking resemblance to Serena’s in the months since they met. _You sought her out for comfort, for reassurance. You weren't expecting this. It's not your fault._

__

__

_Maybe not the first kiss. But the second, I definitely kissed her, then. _

_Because of Charlotte. That's all,_ her brain soothes her conscience. _You were emotional, overwrought. You were grateful to Serena for what she did for Lottie. Nothing more._

__

__

_I kissed Serena because I wanted to, and beyond that I wasn't really thinking._

The words reverberate around Bernie’s head as clearly as if she were shouting them aloud. She needs time to think. She can't yet take in what has happened; that she has done something so absurd and reckless and wonderful. Bernie sinks into one of the vacant deckchairs and rests her head in her hands; closing her eyes. She can still taste Serena’s lipstick on her tongue; smell Serena’s perfume; feel Serena’s skin beneath her fingertips.

How had a moment of comfort with her closest friend resulted in such a fervent kiss? More importantly, how had she not noticed her attraction to Serena? Not realised that her feelings extended beyond colleagues and friends into something that left her lips still tingling minutes later? But, then, Bernie recalls the incident with the firefighter; her jealousy over his flirtation with Serena. Perhaps she _had_ realised; she just hadn’t understood. 

In truth, she hadn't _allowed_ herself to understand; has spent thirty years pretending _not_ to understand. Sitting on the rooftop of the hospital in the dark, she allows herself to think – _really think_ – of Oxford. Of memories which she usually keeps boxed up in a corner of her mind and doesn't permit herself to dwell upon. She is so accustomed to ignoring the memories that she has almost convinced herself they didn’t happen. In suppressing the past so completely she had been unable to see what was before her in the present. 

Now she sees it though, and it terrifies her. The affection she feels for Serena is laid bare before her, and she has no idea how to proceed. Does she ignore it? She can no more pretend that it hasn't happened than she can rewrite time. Try and explain it away? _Impossible._ They were tired, yes; emotional, certainly. But that cannot excuse their behaviour; cannot account for the passion with which Serena embraced her. For a glorious moment, Bernie allows herself to contemplate the possibility of kissing Serena again; of, perhaps, more than just kissing her. She revels in the idea. 

But it cannot be; of course it can’t. There’s Marcus: her husband of twenty-five years; the father of her children; waiting downstairs at Charlotte’s bedside. Her conscience prickles, but not, she suspects, as it should. What does it say of her that she does not feel particularly guilty for having betrayed her husband? Does it make her no better than Edward? She shudders at the thought that her actions might cause Marcus as much pain. But, then, the two are hardly equivalent. Edward was a serial philanderer; a straightforward betrayer of his wife and child. Bernie is– what, exactly? A woman who knows that her marriage is floundering. A woman who knows, too, that she has behaved badly. A woman who regrets how she has behaved? 

Bernie’s not entirely sure she does regret it. And she isn't sure what that means for the future. Of one thing, however, she is certain. That having finally uncovered the reason for the distance between herself and her daughter, she doesn't want to do anything to further jeopardise their relationship. 

Even if it means losing her own with Serena. 

***  
Serena half walks, half runs across the top floor of the hospital to the bank of lifts on the other side of the building. She doesn't want Bernie to follow her; doesn't want to face her until she's had time to compose herself and order her thoughts. The hospital seems impossibly small and confining: she can't go to the roof, or the ward, or the Peace Garden. Bernie knows her haunts. She feels in the pocket of her scrubs for her keys and pulls them out, breathing a sigh of relief. It’s still there, though it has been some time since she's had cause to use it. She makes her way down to the fourth floor, along the corridor, slips the key into the lock, and opens the door with a soft ‘click’.

Hanssen’s office is as neat and ordered as she would expect it to be. By the shafts of moonlight streaming in through the windows, she makes her way over to the sofa and sinks down. 

Guilt crashes over her in a thundering wave. How could she have been so selfish as to give in to her attraction? How could she be so cruel? To take advantage of Bernie who was so obviously vulnerable in the wake of Charlotte’s accident? What had she been thinking?

_She kissed you back._

__

__

_Yes, but you kissed her first._

And then there’s Marcus. More guilt. Marcus doesn't deserve this; nobody deserves to be betrayed by their spouse. He may be dull and plainly unsuited to Bernie, but he is still her husband; still a perfectly decent man who Serena has, by her actions, wronged. Serena swore to herself, in the wake of Edward’s betrayal, that she would never be party to infidelity, never become involved with a married man. 

_Well you haven't, have you? She's a woman, or haven't you noticed that?_

__

__

_Oh I've noticed; don't you worry about that._

The memory, so recent, of Bernie’s body pressed against her own; Bernie’s fingers caressing her neck. Serena shudders involuntarily, conscious for the first time of the sticky wetness pooling in the knickers beneath her scrubs trousers: evidence of her arousal and her misbehaviour. Alone, she flushes with the shame of it. 

She had known she was attracted to Bernie, but, until Bernie's lips had touched hers, she hadn't realised how fiercely she desired the other woman. How much she wanted her. 

_Well, it hasbeen a long six months since Robbie…_

But Serena’s been single for much longer periods before. Has been single far more than not, since she and Edward divorced. She has a very nice collection of toys and a fertile imagination for taking care of her sex drive. And if that isn't enough on occasion then, well, a night out with Sian is usually fruitful in sourcing a willing partner. Never before has she found herself in a passionate embrace with an attractive female colleague. 

_You know why that is, don't you?_

She does. Because this isn't about a dry spell between partners or an overactive sex drive. Bernie isn’t someone she’s met at a party or picked up in a bar; Bernie is her friend. Her _best friend_ , at the risk of sounding like a six year old in the playground. The closest friend she's had since Jenny Anderson in the fifth form at St Winifred’s. And what she feels for Bernie isn't just attraction, isn't just desire, isn't just lust. 

She thinks it might be love. 

***  
Bernie unlocks the front door and enters the house, dropping her belongings in a haphazard pile by the front door. Orderly housekeeping can come later; for now she needs tea and toast, a hot shower, and some clean clothes. 

She opens the door to the living room. Marcus is slumped on the sofa, fast asleep. Bernie tries to withdraw from the room as quietly as she can, but the floorboards creak and Marcus springs to attention. 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.”

Marcus shakes his head. “It's ok. How is she?”

She slumps onto the other end of the sofa. “Fine. Sleeping. I think she’ll be out for a while given the amount of pain medication she's on. Cam said he'll stay with her for a bit. He said I should come home; get some rest and a shower. I suspect that's his way of telling me I look like a mess.”

“You always look like a mess. I doubt you're going to pick today to change that.” For once, there's no bite to his words. Marcus’ tone is affectionate; his eyes warm. His familiarity feels stifling. 

“Have you slept for long?”

Marcus glances at his watch. “A couple of hours. Did she wake at all?”

Bernie nods. “She was ok. In pain, but lucid.” She pauses, hesitant to raise a delicate topic. “I spoke to her about the surgery.”

“About the baby?”

Bernie swallows, nodding slightly. 

“And is she-”

“She was ok,” Bernie repeats. 

Marcus opens his mouth and, for a second, Bernie thinks he is going to pursue the subject further. But he settles for nodding and then lapses into silence. The pause in conversation extends almost long enough to become uncomfortable. 

“Listen, Bern.” Marcus is hesitant; his tone apologetic. “I really am sorry about what I said last night; about you not being here; about it being your fault.” 

“It's fine. You were right, anyway.”

Marcus edges towards her and slips an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She submits; the guilt of her encounter with Serena on the roof gnawing at her. They sit, in quiet awkwardness, side by side. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Bernie says eventually. “The trauma unit is up and running. They don't really need me anymore. So I thought I'd ask Mr Hanssen if he’d release me from my contract early; I want to be here with Lottie while she recovers.”

_I want to be far away from Holby City Hospital. Away from Serena Campbell. Away from temptation._

“And afterwards, I thought, well I wondered: how would you feel if I asked my CO for a U.K. posting?”

“You mean, not go back to Kabul?”

Bernie shakes her head. “Not for a while at least; no.” 

“I think that sounds wonderful! Are you sure?”

Bernie nods. “I think so. I think…” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “I hadn't realised quite how far we'd all drifted apart, especially…” She tails off, unsure how Marcus will respond to what she's about to say.

But he surprises her. “Especially you and I?”

She nods again. 

“You’re right. I think we've taken each other for granted; become wrapped up in our separate lives. We’ve lost sight of one another.” He reaches over to grasp her hand in his. “I thought you being at Holby would help, but you've been so busy…A U.K. posting would give us the opportunity to spend more time together. To reconnect.”

Bernie can't help laughing at that. “You're beginning to sound like a self-help book.”

Marcus smiles. “Ok. But I do think it would be good for us to be together more. For our marriage and for our family.”

She nods. “Yes. Yes it would.”

_It will. It has to be. This is my life. And Serena Campbell can no longer have a place in it._

***  
Serena wakes to find herself still on the sofa in Hanssen’s office. Her eyes are dry from tears and lack of sleep. Sunlight streams in through the windows; she glances at her watch and realises it’s nearly midday. Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her scrubs. She has three missed calls and a text from Jason. 

_Where are you?_

She taps out a brief message; explaining that there had been an emergency and promising to be home later that afternoon. Then she makes her way down to the locker room, collects a change of clothes, and avails herself of the staff showers. Once clean and presentable, she heads to _Pulses_ to assuage her growling stomach. She eats her sandwich, and then drinks her coffee as she makes a slow journey back to the ward. She needs to check on Charlotte; as a doctor she _wants_ to check on Charlotte. But she's not sure she's ready to face Bernie or, worse, Marcus. 

However, when Serena peers through the window into Charlotte’s room, she sees her patient awake and alone. Relieved to be spared the coming encounter, if only for a little while, she pushes opens the door gently. “Good afternoon, Charlotte. Are you all on your own?” 

Charlotte nods. “My mum and dad are coming back later.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore, tired.” 

Serena smiles. “That's to be expected.” She moves to the side of the bed. “I'm Serena Campbell; I operated on you last night.” 

Charlotte’s eyes sparkle with recognition. “I know you. Mum talks about you all the time. You're the surgeon she's working with on the trauma unit.”

“Yes, that's me.”

“It's lovely to meet you at last. I know how much Mum has enjoyed working with you.”

The guilt, momentarily quelled, swells once more. _Working with me. If only that were the extent of our relationship._

Serena gestures to the chair at Charlotte’s bedside. “Do you mind if I take a seat for a second?”

“Of course.” 

Serena sits. She needs to put aside her friendship with Bernie and concentrate on being Charlotte’s doctor. “I don't know how much you've been told about your surgery,” she begins. 

“Oh.” Comprehension dawns on Charlotte’s face. Her voice is quiet, barely audible. “You mean about– about the baby? Mum told me this morning.”

“Is there anything you'd like to ask me?”

Charlotte is silent for a long moment. “Will I still be able to have children?” She looks up at Serena through a shaggy fringe. It reminds Serena so much of Bernie that her heart almost breaks. 

“Yes. There's no reason to think that you'll be unable to carry a child in the future.” 

Charlotte’s eyes close for a second and she nods slightly. “That's a relief. I mean, I'm not in any hurry– I'm only 21, but–”

“I understand.”

There is another pause, as though Charlotte is weighing what to say next. “I didn't want to ask Mum,” she offers eventually. “I've let her down so badly already.” 

Charlotte’s voice cracks and Serena can see the tears welling in her eyes. She reaches her hand out to cover Charlotte’s. “No, no you haven't.”

“She's angry with me.”

“Why on earth would you think that?” 

“She barely spoke to me this morning.” Charlotte swipes at her eyes. “I've never known her to do that before. She must be furious. I don't blame her; I've all but ignored her for months.”

Bile rises in Serena’s throat. However inadvertently, she has caused this girl (and she seems scarcely more than a child at the moment) even more pain than she is already experiencing. 

“Charlotte, look at me.” Serena waits until the girl does as bidden and then continues. “I promise that your mum isn't furious with you; anything but. She's worried about you, yes, but she isn't angry. She was very upset this morning: she had a very difficult night. But none of that is your fault.” 

“Are you sure?” The hope in Charlotte’s eyes is almost unbearable. 

“I'm positive. Talk to her.” Charlotte's face suggests she is as enthusiastic regarding talking about her emotions as her mother. 

Serena quirks an eyebrow. “I mean it. Talk to her. I know talking doesn't come easy to her, but give it a try, hmm?” Charlotte nods and Serena rises from the chair. She turns towards the door just as it opens, and Bernie steps into the room. 

***  
Bernie immediately falters; stomach twisting at her first glimpse of Serena Campbell since last night. Her hair looks fresh from the shower; her makeup impeccable. But her eyes are weary; betraying her tiredness. Even so, Bernie feels a mess in comparison.

“Bernie.”

“Serena.” They stare at one another. Bernie wonders whether the distress she feels is etched on her face as clearly as it is on Serena’s. 

“Knock, knock.”

They both start as Fletch appears in the doorway. He glances from Bernie to Serena, pausing before he speaks; perhaps sensing the tension between the two. “I was going to do Charlotte’s obs, Ms Campbell, if that's ok?” 

Serena nods and Bernie seizes the opportunity to talk to her; little though she wants to have this conversation. “Could I have a word, Serena? If that's ok with you Lottie?” 

“Yes, of course. I'll be fine.” Charlotte turns her head towards Serena. “Thank you, Ms Campbell, for operating and, well, for everything.” 

“You're very welcome, Charlotte.” Serena smiles at Lottie before following Bernie from the room. 

Neither says anything. They just walk, side by side, to _Pulses._ Though it's early afternoon, the corridors are quiet: it's a Saturday and there are no outpatient appointments; visiting doesn't start for another hour. Serena wordlessly purchases their usual order and then leads them out to the Peace Garden, bathed in weak April sunshine. 

They sit together on the bench, further apart than they would have done the day before; than they would have done on any other day since they became friends. The silence which would once have been companionable is now tense. Bernie sips at her coffee; knowing that this is a conversation she must have. But she wants to delay it for as long as she can. Hold onto what little of Serena Campbell she has left. 

Yet it's she who breaks the silence first. “So, we, er– we kissed.”

***  
Kissed seems such an inadequate word to describe what had happened on the roof the previous night. Serena’s world has tilted on its axis. Everything has changed. She kissed a woman, her closest friend, her _married_ closest friend. And yet nothing has changed. In the warm glow of a sunny April afternoon, Bernie is still a woman, she is still Serena’s friend and she is still married. Everything has changed. And nothing has changed. Serena knows there is only one possible outcome to this conversation. 

She thinks Bernie knows this too. Even if neither of them is yet ready to admit it. “I haven't been able to think about much else. All night, I was sat next to Lottie’s bed, holding her hand, and all I could think about was you, Serena.” 

She huffs out a laugh. “Well, that makes two of us.” 

For a second, Bernie looks pleased- glad, Serena supposes, that the kiss has given Serena as much pause as it presumably has Bernie herself. Then she bites her lip. “I emailed Hanssen. I'm taking compassionate leave pending the cessation of my secondment.” 

Bernie turns her eyes towards Serena; her gaze pleading with Serena to understand what Bernie doesn't want to say: that she is staying in the U.K. to be close to Marcus and her family, to protect her marriage.

“I see.” And she does, Serena really does. But it hurts. Even though the outcome is inevitable, even though Serena anticipated it, it stings that Bernie is leaving; walking away from Serena so completely. Serena understands that she is also losing Bernie’s friendship; that's what _really_ hurts. 

“Thank you for telling me. Of course you want to be able to look after Charlotte. I hope you enjoy the new posting.” Her voice has taken on a brittle quality she hasn't heard for a long time. Not since Edward's last failed attempt to persuade her to reconcile. She goes to rise from the bench, but Bernie catches Serena’s hand in her own, stilling her progress. 

“Serena, I–” Pain and guilt are etched on Bernie’s face. “I'm sorry, Serena.” She inhales visibly. “I wanted you to know– this isn't something I've done before. I've never been unfaithful. I'm not _Edward_.”

There is a touch of desperation in Bernie’s tone and she looks at Serena with an urgency and intensity Serena has rarely seen in her friend outside an operating theatre. Serena is touched by how much her good opinion still appears to mean to Bernie. 

“I know.” And she does. Bernie isn't a philanderer. Serena knows that what happened between them is not simply a symptom of a raging libido, or even a failing marriage. She means something to Bernie, though she isn't sure precisely what; she suspects Bernie herself doesn't know. But she means something. It doesn't lessen the pain of parting. 

Serena realises they are still holding hands or, rather, Bernie is still holding her hand. Serena turns hers over, interlocking their fingers. Bernie squeezes tightly and Serena stares at her. She blinks, fiercely. This isn't a situation which will be made easier through tears. 

“I'll miss you.” 

“I'll miss you, too.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again I need to apologise for the gargantuan gap between chapters. Work is just ridiculous at the moment. 
> 
> With thanks, as ever, to the wonderful @ddagent for her editing skills.

Serena is rostered off the next two days, but calls Henrik first thing on Monday morning to tell him she needs to take the rest of the week as holiday. If Hanssen finds it odd that Serena is asking for time off when their trauma consultant is on compassionate leave, he doesn't say so. He simply promises to ask Ric to cover her shifts and tells her he'll see her the following week. 

She rings the ward daily for updates on Charlotte. Raf gives these with good grace; telling her that Charlotte is recovering well, and that he expects to be able to discharge her on Friday. Serena breathes a sigh of relief, knowing that she is not scheduled to work until the following Saturday, and her chances of bumping into any member of the Wolfe-Dunne family are thereby minimal. 

She spends the week at home; tackling the jungle that seems to have suddenly sprung up in the garden overnight with the advent of good weather. Physical activity is helpful, distracting. It keeps her mind occupied and her body tired enough that she falls asleep at night without brooding too heavily upon the events of the previous weekend. Provided, of course, that she helps the process along with a little Shiraz. 

Still, by the time Saturday arrives she has had more than enough of gardening and more than enough of Jason’s incessant questions about why she isn't at work. Serena heads to the hospital in an optimistic frame of mind. It lasts all through the time it takes her to park her car; to buy a coffee from _Pulses_ ; to walk with her coffee to AAU. It continues as she greets Lou, and Morven, and Mr Ramsbottom – who had once played the viola in the Holby City Symphony orchestra, but is now in the early stages of dementia and, in consequence, an AAU frequent flyer. 

Indeed, Serena's positive mood persists right up until the point where she walks into her office. She opens the door and finds the room empty and tidy. Bernie is conspicuous by her absence, save in one respect: an envelope propped up on her desk. _‘Serena Campbell’_ it says on the front, in Bernie’s untidy scrawl. She knows it must be Bernie’s letter of resignation. But she can't contain the glimmer of hope that it is something else. What, she doesn't quite know. She's hardly expecting Bernie to start penning her love letters. It would be wildly inappropriate given that they’ve agreed not to have contact with one another. And, anyway, who said anything about love on Bernie’s part? She’s attracted to Serena, yes, but there’s no reason to suppose that there’s anything more to it than that. Cursing herself inwardly for her ridiculous flights of fancy, Serena searches for the letter opener in her desk drawer and slits open the envelope; extracting a sheet of paper.

1st May 2017

Dear Ms Campbell,

I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you on establishing the trauma unit. It has been an immensely rewarding project from which I have learnt a great deal. Working at Holby has been one of the highlights of my professional career and I am sorry to have to cut the experience short. However, I am sure you will understand that due to personal circumstances beyond my control, it is necessary for me to tender my resignation effective immediately. 

I hope the trauma unit continues to flourish.

Yours faithfully, 

Berenice Wolfe

 

The letter is typed, but folded within it – on lined paper torn from the back of a diary or notebook – there is a separate handwritten note. 

_Dear Serena,_

_Working with you has been one of the happiest times of my life. I will forever treasure our friendship. And I will always be grateful to you for everything you did for Charlotte, and for me. I will miss you greatly._

_With very best wishes for your future happiness,_

_B x_

Serena’s eyes dampen as she reads the note; it seems so very final, somehow, to see Bernie's farewell written down. She takes the resignation letter; refolds it and replaces it in the envelope. Then she crosses out her own name and prints the name of the HR director underneath, along with ‘Berenice Wolfe, resignation’, and places the envelope in the post tray. She looks at the note for a long time. She should throw it away, really; draw a line under this whole wretched business. But she can't quite bear to; not now, not yet. Instead she folds it and tucks it into the inside pocket of her bag, before drying her eyes and heading out onto the ward to face the day.

***  
Marcus has a full list of surgery scheduled on Friday, so Bernie goes alone to pick up Charlotte. She arrives to find Lottie looking cheerful; packed and dressed. Raf signs the discharge forms and checks Charlotte understands how many painkillers to take, and then together they leave the ward and make their way to the car park. 

Charlotte looks askance when Bernie stops next to Marcus’ navy blue Volvo. “Where’s your car?” 

“Your Dad has it. You've just had major abdominal surgery: I didn't think mine would be terribly comfortable for you to get in and out of.”

Charlotte sighs. “Probably not. It’s much more fun though.”

Bernie laughs. “I won't disagree, but please don't let your father hear you say it.” Charlotte grins: Marcus’ complaints about Bernie's choice of conveyance are well-rehearsed and range from the dangers of convertibles to the impracticality of only having two seats. 

When they arrive home, Bernie settles Charlotte on the sofa; before retreating to the kitchen to make tea and ferret out a packet of chocolate Hobnobs, a shared favourite. Lottie doesn't say anything, but she smiles when she sees the biscuits; takes one and proceeds to dunk it into her mug of tea. 

They sit quietly side by side on the sofa, sipping their tea and munching their Hobnobs. Bernie feels she should really raise the subject of the baby. Charlotte should talk about it, though Bernie wonders whether perhaps a professional counsellor would do a better job than herself. All the same, she ought to raise it. But she's scared of frightening Charlotte off, of damaging the fragile relationship which they are only just starting to repair. In the end, Charlotte solves the dilemma by bringing up the subject herself. 

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Did you see Will, at the hospital?”

“Will?” Bernie is momentarily blank. “Oh – him, er – no, no I didn’t.”

Charlotte’s face falls and Bernie’s heart aches for her. She wishes so much she could protect Charlotte from the pain she’s experiencing. She knows, logically, that Charlotte is going to have her heart broken for the first time at some point. But Charlotte’s situation is so messy and complicated and bloody painful and Bernie isn’t sure how to help her deal with it. She doesn’t know whether to push Charlotte to talk about it, or to let Charlotte take her time and open up when she’s ready. 

“He hasn’t contacted me,” Charlotte says, trying very hard not to cry. “He didn’t come to see me; he hasn't called, hasn't texted.”

Bernie can think of many names she'd like to call Dr William Poole, and a few inventive uses of her military training that she'd like to experiment with. She's not entirely sure they're congruent with the Hippocratic Oath. 

“Did he know you were pregnant?” Charlotte nods and begins to cry. “Oh, Lottie.” Bernie wraps her arms around her daughter as she weeps. It's slightly awkward at first. They're not a particularly tactile family: it's been a long time since Bernie has held her daughter as she cried. But she does so now. 

For a long time there is no conversation: just the sound of Charlotte’s sobs. Eventually she quietens; her head laying in Bernie’s lap. “I had an appointment booked for a termination.”

This seems to require a response, though Bernie isn't quite sure what. “I see.” 

“I thought that was the sensible thing to do. I'm not in any position to have a baby. But now it's gone I -”

“You think maybe you did want to keep it after all?”

“Yes, no - I don't know. I don't know how I feel. But I don't feel happy to have had a miscarriage. I don't feel relieved. I feel sad. And I shouldn't, should I, if I was going to have a termination?” 

Bernie sighs and hugs Charlotte closer. “I don't think there's a right and a wrong way to feel. No matter what choice you would have made, miscarriage is hard.” 

Charlotte is silent for several seconds, then lifts her head and sits up. “Mum? Did you?” 

Bernie nods. 

“I'm sorry.”

“Thank you. It was a long time ago and very different circumstances. But I hope I do understand a little of what you're feeling.”

She brushes away the blonde strands that have fallen over Charlotte’s eyes. 

“Thanks, Mum.”

Bernie looks askance at her daughter. “What on earth for?”

“For listening, for not being angry with me. Ms Campbell was right.”

“Serena?” Bernie almost succeeds in keeping her voice even; hopes that Charlotte doesn’t notice. She doesn’t want to think about Serena; not now. 

Charlotte nods. “Yes, she…well, she told me to talk to you.” 

Bernie is once again overwhelmed with gratitude towards Serena. She's given Bernie her daughter back in more ways than one. Repayment of such a debt seems impossible. 

“You seem very close.”

“Hmm?”

“You and Ms Campbell – Serena. You seem very close.”

For a wild moment Bernie thinks that Charlotte knows; that she has somehow, improbably, absurdly, discovered what happened between her and Serena on the roof. But Charlotte’s face shows only bewilderment at Bernie’s panicked response, and Bernie realises that Charlotte meant only that she and Serena are friends, knowing that Bernie, like Charlotte herself, does not make friends easily. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

“You'll miss her, now you're not working together.”

Bernie is struck, suddenly and forcibly, by the enormity of Serena’s absence from her life, and curses once again her own impetuous behaviour. “Yes, yes I'll miss her very much.” 

***  
Serena’s first week on AAU without Bernie is tough. She misses Bernie more than she could have thought possible. She has worked at Holby City for five years; most of that time on AAU. Bernie has spent less than three short months on her ward, but to work there without her suddenly seems intolerable.

She tells herself that Bernie would have left soon anyway; back to her unit, back to Kabul. But although this is true, Serena had never anticipated that Bernie would be gone so completely from her life. Without consciously contemplating it, she had assumed Bernie would always be there on the other end of an email, of a text; that she would come home on leave and they would drink Shiraz and eat fish and chips and watch quiz shows with Jason. Serena had not imagined a future in which Bernie was entirely absent. She has grown so accustomed to sharing the details of her life with Bernie, that her sudden and total departure is unnerving. 

At the same time, reminders of Bernie are everywhere. Her handwriting litters patient notes. The umbrella Serena purchased for her after they got caught in the rain is propped up in a corner of the office. On Thursday, Serena opens the bottom drawer of Bernie’s desk; hoping to discover the black hole into which all her biros have vanished. Instead she finds two packets of chocolate Hobnobs. She sits in Bernie’s chair and cries. 

The staff tiptoe around Serena, clearly anticipating volatility. Nobody mentions Bernie’s absence to her face, though she knows that the jungle drums beat rhythmically behind her back. From snatches of overheard conversation, the received wisdom is that she and Bernie have had a blazing row. Opinion differs on the row’s subject, with some suggesting they differed over Serena’s treatment of Charlotte, and others maintaining that it was Serena's refusal to allow Bernie into theatre which caused the breach. Serena supposes she should be glad that none of the rumours she hears come even close to the truth, though it's small comfort. 

Early Friday evening, when Serena has handed over to the night shift and is tackling a stack of paperwork to avoid going home - and drinking herself into a Shiraz induced stupor - Raf knocks on the office door. 

“You and I are going for a drink.”

“Raf, I'm sorry, I'm really not in the mood.” 

“You and I are going for a drink,” Raf repeats firmly. “We’re going for a drink and you are going to tell me why you're so miserable and why Bernie’s disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Serena knows she's not going to win: she'll have to give in eventually. So she gathers her coat and bag and follows Raf out of the ward. He takes her, not to _Albie’s_ , but to a quiet pub a little way out of Holby. It’s a warm Spring day, and they sit outside in the garden in the glow of the evening sunshine. Serena takes a seat on a picnic bench while Raf goes to the bar, returning with a bottle and two glasses. 

“It's Malbec,” he warns. “The only Shiraz on their list costs nearly fifty quid a bottle.” 

He pours wine into both glasses and they sip their drinks in silence for a few minutes. 

“So, are you going to tell me whatever it is that’s happened?” Raf ask eventually, when her glass is half empty. 

Tongue loosened by the wine, Serena embraces frankness. “We kissed.”

Raf splutters his mouthful of Malbec. “You and _Bernie_?” 

Serena nods. 

“How – why?” 

His expression is so confused; Serena almost finds it comical. She tells him everything: the friendship they'd forged at the conference; the sudden dawning of her attraction; kissing Bernie on the night of Charlotte's accident.

“I feel so dreadfully guilty and so angry with myself. She's married. I've been in that situation, been the betrayed spouse. You and I both know how horrible that is. How could I do that to somebody else?”

“You're being too hard on yourself. You made a mistake. People do. Nobody’s perfect. It was a stressful situation, emotions running high. You made a mistake.”

Serena shakes her head. “I didn't though.” She swipes at the tear escaping from her left eye with the back of her hand. “I knew I was attracted to her,” she admits. “I tried to pretend I wasn't, but I knew.” 

Raf puts down his wine glass and reaches across the table to clasp her hand. “Hey, that's not a crime. You can't help being attracted to someone.”

“She's my best friend, Raf. From the first time we met, we had this connection; this spark. And we work so well together.”

“That's true. You're totally in sync in theatre: you'd think you'd been working together for decades.”

“And I've chucked it all away,” Serena finishes angrily. “For five minutes of madness on the hospital roof.” She drains her glass. “I miss her.” 

“Do you not think that maybe, when the dust has settled, you could be friends again?”

Serena says nothing, but shakes her head. Raf looks sympathetically at her across the table but says nothing either. He takes advantage of the pause in conversation to pour more wine into both their glasses and takes a sip from his own, before turning his boyish grin on her. 

“I didn't even know you liked women.” 

Serena laughs. “Neither did I!”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. No. Well, not really.”

Raf raises an eyebrow.

“There was one girl. When I was a medical student. I was at a party – in Stepney, of all places. We kissed. I put it down to too much cheap plonk and haven't really thought about it since. Or at least, I hadn't thought about it until I realised how I felt about Bernie.”

“And how do you feel about Bernie?”

Serena pauses, hesitant to give voice to the thoughts that have been resonating in her head for the last few weeks. “I'm in love with her.” 

Raf stares for a long moment. “What are you going to do?”

“There isn't anything to do. I forget about it, forget her.” Serena drains her glass. “I move on.”

Raf picks up the empty bottle. “I’d better buy us another.” He strides off across the lawn in pursuit of more wine and Serena is suddenly inordinately glad of his friendship; of his understanding and support and lack of judgement. Raf has helped her through worse than this, she reasons. In time, her heart will mend, and she’ll forget all about Bernie Wolfe. 

***  
Bernie closes the door to Charlotte’s bedroom as quietly as she can, so as not to wake her sleeping daughter. It's still quite early in the evening, only 9.30, but Charlotte is still recovering: she has, after all, only been home from hospital for a week. Even the quiet family Sunday, spent lazing in the garden and eating a roast, appears to have worn her out. It's been a lovely day, though; all four of them at home and spending time together. It’s been a very long time since Bernie can remember her family feeling so connected, so much of a unit. 

Marcus is already in the bedroom when she enters; sitting up in bed, engrossed in a copy of the Journal of Orthopaedic Surgery. Bernie exchanges jeans and shirt for pyjama trousers and cotton vest, and then slips into bed beside him; sliding down under the duvet. Marcus places the journal on the bedside table with his reading glasses on top and switches off the lamp, leaving the bedroom in semi darkness. His arm reaches around her waist and he kisses her shoulder.

Briefly, Bernie contemplates whether she wants to make love with Marcus. Much as she enjoys sex when it happens, she's not particularly in the mood, but she so rarely is: children, a busy career and peri-menopause haven't had a positive effect on her sex drive. Bernie knows Marcus won't complain if she says no; he won't moan, or sulk, or pester her. She's conscious though that it's been a long time since they last made love. Weeks ago, certainly; possibly months. It can hardly be helping their current sense of disconnect: sex is the glue that holds a marriage together after all. 

Marcus kisses her and her eyes close. As she kisses him back, her mind can't help but recall another kiss, barely a fortnight before. And suddenly it is Serena’s hands roving over her body; Serena caressing her waist. Serena tugs down the thin cotton of Bernie’s vest, exposing her left breast. Bernie feels warm lips enclose her nipple - sucking gently at first but then tugging more firmly - and desire courses through her. Serena moves to the other breast and Bernie hums with pleasure. 

She slides her own hand down her body, pushing her fingers past the elastic at the waist of her pyjamas. She presses a fingertip downwards: she is even wetter than she had realised. A hand grasps her wrist, pushing her own aside. The hand slides the pyjamas over Bernie’s hips and down her legs, before returning to run a thumb over the tip of her clit in lazy circles. Bernie groans and her hands clutch at the soft cotton of the sheets. 

“Is that ok?”

The sound of Marcus’ voice catapults Bernie back to reality. She is not, as she had imagined, in Serena’s bed, but her own; in the bedroom she shares with Marcus and which had once been occupied by his parents. And it is her husband who is caressing her, not her best friend. 

_Former best friend_ , she thinks dully. _I'm never going to see her again._ Bernie feels herself flush with shame and she's relieved that the bedroom is shrouded in darkness; that Marcus cannot see her face. 

“It’s good,” she says, trying to inject her voice with some enthusiasm. 

And it is, or at least, it's not bad. Marcus is not a selfish lover, and he's known her long enough to know how she likes to be touched. But the arousal that had flooded through her during her fantasy of Serena has evaporated. How odd, she thinks, that her response to the same physical touch can be so affected by who she imagines to be the person touching her. 

It doesn't last long. After only a minute or two, she can tell Marcus is nearing climax: unsurprising, she supposes, given his age and the paucity of their sex life. She cries out and he speeds up, before collapsing on top of her, spent.

Afterwards, when Marcus has rolled over and fallen into a deep sleep, Bernie slips from the bed and into the bathroom. Closing the door behind her, she sinks down onto the edge of the bath. Faking an orgasm isn't exactly a novelty for her. But fantasising about someone else while Marcus makes love to her certainly is. Guilt is becoming a disturbingly familiar emotion. It feels like a betrayal of Serena too. A betrayal to be fantasising about her friend without her consent, without her knowledge. And doubly so whilst in bed with Marcus. 

She wants to run; to pound the streets of Holby until her body is exhausted and all thoughts of Serena are driven from her mind. But how would she explain that if Marcus woke? How can she justify such a physical flight from intimacy? She can't. And so she doesn’t; she washes her face and returns to the bedroom, where she lies, sleepless, in the dark.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I need to apologise for the atrociously long gap between chapters. This is due to life being stupidly busy, and the fact that the chapter is both stupidly long and was a complete bugger to write. It took eight drafts (yes, really). So, many thanks to ddagent who has the patience of a saint and has had to coax some of this out of me sentence by sentence.

Four weeks after the accident, Charlotte returns to Oxford and Bernie starts her new job. It's a training post, teaching basic trauma surgery to young army doctors. The teaching is taking place at various military hospital units around the country so she's often away Monday to Friday, but she's still able to get home every weekend. It's a long time since she's had a U.K. posting; years since she spent such a long period of time at home. Holby in the summer is by turns hot and sticky and depressingly wet and chilly. Meanwhile, Marcus is taking the idea that they need to spend more time together extremely seriously, so much that so she sometimes feels he's barely letting her out of his sight. He arranges outings and dinners and weekends away- sometimes with the kids or friends and family- but often just the two of them. As the weeks turn to months, Bernie feels stifled. She finds herself yearning for Afghanistan: for the wide open desert and the huge night skies; for excitement and danger and freedom.

The first Saturday of October dawns bright and clear. Bernie yawns and rolls over to find Marcus’ side of the bed empty. This and the shards of sunlight filtering through the gap between the curtain tells her it is rather later than she usually wakes. It's not surprising: a busy week has been followed by an accident on the motorway which had stretched Bernie’s trip home from Portsmouth to four hours instead of the expected two. Consequently, it had been midnight before she'd got to bed. 

When she enters the kitchen ten minutes later, she finds Marcus already dressed and seated at the table, newspaper spread before him. He looks up as she enters. “Late night, was it?”

Is it her imagination or is there a note of accusation in Marcus’ voice? “Nasty accident on the M4.” Bernie crosses the room to switch on the kettle and pulls a mug from the cupboard. “Can I make you a cup?” 

Marcus shakes his head. “I've moved onto coffee. There's some in the pot if you'd like. How was Portsmouth?”

“Oh, you know. Trauma surgery for the new recruits. It's hardly setting the world alight.”

“How many more weeks are you down there?”

“Another two, then onto Northallerton.”

Anger flits briefly across Marcus’ face. “That's even further- I'll see even less of you.”

“I didn't choose the locations of the UK’s military hospital units, Marcus,” Bernie snaps. She doesn't add: _and you're seeing a hell of a lot more of me than you would if I were in Kabul._

For a moment, Marcus looks as though he intends to retaliate, then thinks better of it. “I thought we could go for a drive later: I've booked us a table at _The Lamb_ for lunch. And we’ve got tickets for the jazz festival at Langton tomorrow.”

Bernie fights hard to keep the dismay from her face. It isn't that either activity is unpleasant per se: ok, jazz isn't really her thing, but she doesn't hate it; and the food at _The Lamb_ , a tiny little country pub in the Avon Valley, is marvellous. But after a string of hectic weekends, and a busy working week, she longs for a weekend spent mooching around the house; going for a run and lazing on the sofa, reading. 

But there's no point suggesting it: she knows from experience that Marcus will be hurt and bewildered; confused as to her desire to spend time on her own; that he'll interpret it as a rejection. Bernie has moments of panic where she feels somehow that he must know, or at least suspect. Not her feelings for Serena necessarily, but that she had feelings for someone. Why else would he be trying to keep so tight a hold upon her? 

Maybe he should. She has struggled, since her departure from Holby, to suppress her crush on Serena. In the immediate aftermath of Charlotte’s injury, when she had been occupied with caring for her daughter, it had been relatively straightforward to ignore her attraction. Later, when she had started her new posting, she had been absorbed with acclimatising to a new role and people and places. But now the new has become the norm; life at home with Marcus has settled into a routine; and Bernie finds herself thinking about Serena more than she should. Sometimes it's at work: she'll roll her eyes at a particularly incompetent junior, make a mental note to tell Serena, and then remember that she can't. But sometimes, it's afterwards, as she sits besides Marcus on the sofa and half wishes she were nestled next to Serena at Albie’s.

She pours boiling water onto a tea bag, before crossing to the table to add a splash of milk. It's too hot to drink, so she takes a seat and leafs idly through the small stack of post on the table. At the bottom of the pile is a small cream envelope, thick paper, addressed to her in a hand which is familiar but she can't quite place. Bernie runs her finger under the seal, extracting a stiff card and a handwritten note on a Holby City hospital compliments slip. 

“What's that you’ve got?” 

Bernie finishes reading the letter before she replies to Marcus. “It's an invitation to the BMA’s Medical Awards Dinner: the Holby City trauma unit has been nominated for Clinical Innovation.”

“That’s wonderful news. When is it?”

She glances down at the card. “The end of the month. I don’t think I’ll go though. You know I hate that sort of thing.” _And I need to keep as much distance between myself and Serena Campbell as possible_. 

“Come on, Bern. This is extremely prestigious. You deserve the recognition.” 

Bernie stares down at the card in her hands. How can she possibly explain to Marcus why she doesn’t want to go? “I don’t even work there any more- I left ages ago.”

He looks at her, curious as to her reluctance. “It’s only been a few months.”

She hesitates, unable to see a way to protest further without her reticence becoming suspicious. “Ok.” She nods her agreement.

“Wonderful. We’ll get a hotel for the weekend. We can see Cam!”

_And Serena_ , Bernie thinks, her heart hammering in her chest at the thought. _I’ll see Serena again_. 

***  
Serena contemplates her reflection in the mirror. She rather wishes now that she’d bought something new, but she's felt so apathetic about the whole affair that she'd plucked the dress from her wardrobe almost at random. Until she'd arrived at the hotel this afternoon and unpacked, it hadn't registered that it was the same outfit she’d worn to the AGS conference dinner. The dinner she’d attended with Bernie the weekend they'd first met. 

_Bernie_. She's tried very hard in the six months since her departure not to think about her too much; to keep Bernie Wolfe, and her feelings about her, tightly under lock and key. It's difficult though, working in the trauma unit day in, day out. An ever present reminder of the part Bernie once played in her life; the part she doesn't play anymore. 

Since the invitation to the awards ceremony had arrived in her in-tray four weeks ago, Serena has wondered, sometimes hourly, if Bernie will be attending tonight. The idea holds attraction and terror in equal measure. Bernie has certainly been invited, but Serena has no idea whether she's even in the country. She's probably back in Kabul, or somewhere else absurdly dangerous, surrounded by gunfire and IEDs. Even if she _is_ still in England, she'll be busy with work and her family. She’s hardly likely to be putting on cocktail dresses and attending dinners in swanky London hotels in celebration of a hospital she's not even working at any more. So Serena puts the possibility of Bernie firmly out of her mind. 

She makes a final check of her appearance, suddenly uncertain. She should've made the effort to book a hair appointment. Maybe even chosen a new lipstick. Serena pushes the thought to one side. It's not as though she's trying to impress anyone. _Is she?_

There's a knock on the door and Serena opens it; gathers her clutch and wrap and takes Raf’s proffered arm. As they make their way down the stairs and into the foyer of the hotel, Serena is extremely glad that she decided to bring Raf as her plus one. He’s a good friend. He’s also put in a great deal of work on the trauma centre, especially since Bernie’s departure: he deserves a little recognition. 

They cross the foyer and enter the function room where the pre-dinner drinks reception is being held. Serena takes the flute of champagne which Raf hands to her and begins to scan the room, searching for familiar faces. She receives a nod or two from people she's met over the years; people who are barely acquaintances, really. There doesn't seem to be anybody here she knows well. And then, across the room, she spots a blonde head. 

As though she can feel Serena’s gaze upon her, Bernie turns around. Their eyes meet and Bernie’s smile of recognition is dazzling. Serena wonders whether her own is just as bright. She feels her mouth dry as Bernie starts to pick her way slowly across the room, her eyes never leaving Serena’s face, until suddenly Bernie is standing in front of her. 

Like Serena, she’s wearing the same dress that she wore to the conference dinner. Serena remembers it; at least, she remembers that the dress was navy blue and had an asymmetric neckline. But she hadn't remembered, or perhaps hadn't noticed then, how Bernie looks in it. She remembers thinking at the time that Bernie looked good, but good does not do either Bernie or the dress justice. It doesn't describe the way the dress hangs from a single strap, leaving Bernie’s other shoulder completely bare; how the bodice hugs her slim figure; how the skirt drapes, revealing long legs. Serena thinks Bernie in that dress might just be the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. 

For a moment, Serena wonders whether hugging Bernie would be inappropriate; or conversely, whether not hugging Bernie would be too conspicuous. But then Bernie closes the gap between them and they wrap their arms tightly around one another. Serena can feel the warmth of bare skin beneath her fingertips where they rest on Bernie’s right shoulder. Her nose is buried in Bernie’s hair. She breathes in the smell of her. There is so much she wants to say: _I miss you. I want you. I need you._ But she can't say any of that; not now. She hugs Bernie a little tighter instead. 

“Serena!” 

Marcus’ interruption breaks the spell. Serena releases her hold on Bernie, who gives her a shy, half embarrassed smile. 

“You vanished on me, Bern, but now I understand why.” Marcus chuckles to himself and smiles at them all, wrapping one arm around his wife’s waist and apparently oblivious to the tension which seems so palpable to Serena. Once again, she’s grateful for Raf’s presence. Seeing the happy couple by herself would have been unbearable. They stand together for several seconds in awkward silence, until Raf suggests that they go into dinner. 

“So,” Raf says when they are all seated. “Bernie, I assumed you’d be back in the desert by now?”

Serena’s mind wanders as Bernie explains what she's been doing since she left Holby. Why hadn’t she given serious consideration to the idea that Bernie might be here? Because she assumed Bernie would have gone back to Kabul? Or because she didn’t want to think about what she’d do if Bernie attended?

“Serena?” 

Serena starts at the sound of Bernie’s voice, a jerk of her hand sending her glass sideways. Bernie catches it before the contents spills over the pristine table cloth. “Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I asked how Jason is?” 

“He's fine, thank you.” 

“That's good. And the trauma unit?” 

“It's fine.” Her mouth is dry; conversation beyond reach. To even look at Bernie seems risky; if she smiles at her, surely Marcus will see? 

“We’re getting lots of patients through,” Raf adds. “Good outcomes, too. It’s saving lives.” 

“As we have living proof in Lottie.” Marcus reaches out a hand and places it over Bernie’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s a real testament to all the hard work you’ve put in. In fact, I think we should propose a toast.” He picks up the bottle of wine from the table and tops up everyone’s glasses, before raising his own. “To Bernie and Serena: let’s hope the award committee appreciates their efforts as much as we do.”

“Bernie and Serena.” Raf raises his glass, poised to chime it against Serena’s. She picks up her own, toasting first Raf, and then Marcus. Serena’s eyes flit to Bernie, finding her gaze fixed intently upon Serena’s face. She brings her glass to rest against Bernie’s. 

“To us.” Bernie’s words are almost inaudible, drowned out by the music that heralds the start of the prize giving, and the arrival of the MC on stage. 

Serena nods her acknowledgement and takes a large gulp of wine; pleased to be spared the necessity of replying verbally. She is willing the wretched evening to be over; to allow her to escape from Bernie, and Marcus, and the reminders of what cannot be.  


***  
An hour later, Bernie looks around the table in despair, wishing fervently that she had stood her ground with Marcus and refused to attend the ceremony. In the month since receiving the invitation, she had determined to maintain her distance from Serena; to treat her as an amiable co-worker and no more. Resolution had escaped her the moment she had seen Serena across the crowded function room. Elation had struck her at the sight of Serena after so long a separation. Her need to reach out to the other woman, to enfold Serena in her arms, had been nothing short of visceral; and she had determined to to allow herself the pleasure of Serena’s company for the remainder of the evening. 

Serena, however, appears not to share Bernie’s vision. Although Serena had initially seemed pleased to see her, she has subsequently retreated into uncharacteristic taciturnity; barely speaking a word to Bernie. Even the announcement that they had won in their nominated category had elicited little reaction. They had trooped, side by side, to the front of the ballroom, shaken hands with a representative from the pharmaceutical company sponsoring the award, and retreated back to their table in near silence. 

And now, Serena is engaged in a protracted discussion with Raf and a pair of doctors from Liverpool about reconstructive surgery. At least, she appears to be. As Bernie watches, she realises that Serena is scarcely contributing a word; that her eyes are fixed on her plate at least as often as they are on the faces of her interlocutors. Bernie suspects that if this dinner had taken place _before_ \- before Charlotte and the accident and their wretched, wretched mistake - she’d be being treated to one of Serena’s delightfully barbed commentaries right about now. As it is, Serena is not looking at her as determinedly as it is possible for someone not to look at the person sitting next to them. She's barely a foot away from the other woman, but she might as well be in Kandahar for all the distance between them. 

Bernie watches as Serena feigns interest in the thoughts of the unknown surgeon. Her head is angled away from Bernie, accentuating her elegant neck. Bernie's eyes trace the hollows of her clavicles; the cleavage exposed by the deep v of the neckline. Her mouth dries. Bernie recalls the first time she saw Serena in that dress. She remembers thinking then how lovely Serena looked: had that been the early seeds of the attraction she now feels so strongly? 

“Bern?”

She starts, her heart giving a guilty lurch at the sound of her husband’s voice. _I'm married. I shouldn't be looking at anyone. Least of all another woman._

She turns to smile at Marcus. “Sorry; I was miles away.” 

“I asked if you'd like to dance.” 

“Of course.”

Bernie takes Marcus’ hand and follows him onto the dance floor, relieved that the loud music precludes conversation; her thoughts are too consumed by Serena. She allows Marcus to lead her around the floor, but her gaze is drawn again and again to their table and the brunette now twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers.

As the second song starts, she sees the Liverpudlian surgeon ask Serena to dance. Briefly, she entertains a fantasy about dancing with Serena herself: of holding the other woman in her arms; of pulling her close. She pushes the thought away. And then, as she peers over her husband’s shoulder, she sees Serena: the surgeon clasping her waist; her hand resting on his shoulder; her head thrown back in riotous laughter. Bernie’s feet slow; anger flares and her gut churns.

“Ow!” Bernie gasps in pain as Marcus treads heavily on her left foot. 

“Oh, sorry, Bern. Are you ok? You look very pale.” His face shows concern; Bernie can't bear to look at him.

“Yes, yes I’m fine.”

She's so distracted by the sight of Serena and the surgeon that she almost doesn't notice when Marcus pulls her closer; doesn't realise he's going to kiss her until the split second before he does. 

“What was that for?”

Marcus laughs. “Do I need a reason? You're my wife, I love you, we haven't danced together for a long time.”

“We haven't, have we?” She smiles at him, but doesn't give the response to endearment she knows he expects. She can't. Not here, not now. “Do you mind if we sit the next one out? My toes are sore.” 

Marcus nods. “Ok. I'll join you in a minute: I'm just going to have a quick word with a couple of people.”

Bernie nods; grateful to be away from Marcus. She needs to think. She limps back towards the deserted table and collapses into a chair. Her eyes scan the dance floor, searching, despite herself, for Serena and her new beau; but she can see neither of them. Bernie is reminded of the firefighter who had flirted with Serena at the hospital; the jealousy that she had recognised but not comprehended. She hadn't understood then what it was that so irked her about Serena enjoying someone else’s company; why she so desperately wants to be the person to make Serena laugh. She understands now. 

With sudden clarity, Bernie realises for the first time the depth of her feelings for Serena. That the emotions she had vainly dismisses as a crush on her dearest friend, born of close proximity and a floundering marriage, are much, much, more. That the affection she feels for Serena isn't friendship or even attraction, but love. 

***  
The wrought ironwork of the bench is cold. Serena shivers and pulls her wrap tighter around her. Although it’s mild for the time of year, it’s after 10pm and there’s a distinct chill in the air; she could do with a proper coat rather than a length of flimsy gauze. Still, the sky is clear and the hotel’s courtyard is a pretty space, complete with climbing roses and espaliered fruit trees. Serena imagines it must be it must be beautiful in summer, though now in late October there's little in bloom. Still, it’s a pleasant spot for a moment or two of quiet reflection; respite from the melee of the ballroom. 

The evening had been one of progressive discomfort. It had been bad enough having to watch Bernie and Marcus’ obvious closeness at dinner; quelling the tide of jealousy and sadness as they danced had been impossible, and she'd distracted herself by flirting with the handsome surgeon from the next table. The sight of their kiss had been too much to bear; leading her to take refuge in the garden. 

Behind her, she hears a creak as the door opens, and then the clatter of heals on stone. Serena knows it’s Bernie before she turns to look: is it the tread of her footsteps or the scent of her perfume as she approaches?

“Serena. Sorry. I didn’t meant to intrude. I just needed some fresh air.” Bernie turns back towards the door. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

Serena had fled to the garden to avoid Bernie. But she finds that now Bernie is here, in front of her, without Marcus at her side, Serena can’t resist the temptation of her company. 

“Bernie, wait. You don’t need to go.” She pats the space on the bench beside her. Out here, just the two of them in the dark garden, she can forget Marcus. For just a few minutes, she can enjoy Bernie’s presence, before it is snatched away once more. 

“How’s Charlotte?” 

Bernie smiles. “She’s well, thank you. Busy, of course, now she’s in her third year, but she’s enjoying it and she’s completely recovered from the accident. She said to say hello, by the way.”

Serena smiles back. “Do say hello in return.” She pauses. “And her tutor? What happened there?”

Bernie’s face darkens.“I tried to persuade her to make a complaint, but she didn’t want to pursue it. I can understand her perspective, I suppose, but…”

“But you want him strung up by his balls from the top of the Radcliffe Camera?” 

Bernie honks with laughter. “Exactly. I want him to be punished for the pain Lottie’s suffered. And-” 

“And you’re worried that he’ll do it again and you feel it will be all your fault.”

Bernie nods.

“You’re not responsible for his actions, Bernie,” Serena lectures. “And the college aren’t going to act without Charlotte’s statement. All you can do is respect her decision and support her the best you can.” She reaches over to cover Bernie’s hand with her own, giving it a squeeze of comfort, marvelling at how quickly they have fallen into old familiar patterns of closeness and comfort. She wonders how much time and distance it will take, to diminish their easy intimacy. Whether time and space ever could. 

***  
Bernie turns her hand over in Serena's grasp, interlocking their fingers. After the earlier events of the evening, she had certainly not anticipated that they would end up here: together, side by side, as though nothing had ever happened to interrupt their once close friendship. 

She had come outside in search of solitude; to escape the noise of the party, and Marcus, and thoughts of Serena in the arms of someone else. She’d known she should turn around again, but Serena’s invitation to sit beside her had been too tempting to be resisted. As she had spoken to Serena about Charlotte, she had felt a weight lift with the sharing of the burden; relief at Serena’s understanding. She has missed this, so very much. Serena always seems to understand exactly what she is feeling; know exactly how to make her feel better.

Serena squeezes her hand again, and smiles at her- comfort and understanding and affection all at once- and Bernie is struck anew by how beautiful she is. 

“I missed you.” 

Serena turns to face her. “I missed you too, Bernie. Very much.” 

It’s strangely comforting, in a way, to know that their separation has pained Serena as much as it has her. And despite the pain of the evening- and the pain that she knows will come after- she is glad to have seen Serena tonight, to have had this time with her. She knows it cannot be for long; she can’t be Serena’s friend and Marcus’ wife. 

Bernie looks at Serena, still holding her hand, and realises that Serena understands that. Serena has neither hope nor expectation that things will change. Still, she feels compelled to say something, to try and explain somehow. 

“Serena, I-”

“Don’t.” There is no bite to Serena’s words. She simply sounds weary. “You don’t need to say anything. I understand.”

Bernie feels her own breath hitch. “Serena, I’m sorry.”

Serena disentangles her fingers from Bernie’s and stands up. “I think I'm going to call it a night. Can you tell Raf I've gone back to my room?” Serena leans in and places the barest of kisses on Bernie’s lips. “Goodbye Bernie.”

Bernie watches Serena as she strides across the courtyard and through the door. Six months ago, she had willingly sacrificed Serena’s friendship to try and save her marriage, desperate to dismiss her feelings for Serena and hold her fracturing family together. Today, the loss of Serena feels an even harder bargain than it had then. She knows that there’s no other option, but if the choice is between Serena and Marcus, she’s not entirely sure it’s Marcus she wants. 

***  
In the weeks that follow, that conversation with Bernie in the courtyard haunts Serena. She thinks about it all the time: in surgery; while watching wildlife documentaries with Jason; while drinking Shiraz at Albie’s. When Frederick goes on his rampage - as she waits trapped in the hospital, not knowing whether she will escape unharmed - she thinks about Bernie and wonders whether she should have said something more; and then berates herself for contemplating such a selfish course of action. And afterwards, when she has wept herself to sleep in grief and fury, she dreams that it was Bernie that Frederick shot, instead of Raf; Bernie who was killed, rather than Oliver. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she confesses to Raf, when she tells him of the dreams. It’s a week after the shooting and Raf is still a patient on Keller, though thankfully on the mend now: sitting up in bed and even well enough to be studying for his FRCS exam. 

Raf is silent for some moments. “I understand how you feel about Bernie,” he begins, and his speech is slow and careful; Serena gets the impression he’s trying not to upset her. “But do you think that perhaps it’s time that you started to move on?” 

Serena plucks a grape from the bowl by Raf’s bed. “Elinor keeps on at me to try a dating app,” she says eventually.

“That's not such a bad idea.” He laughs at Serena’s sceptical eyebrow raise. “I'm serious. Women- that's not something you've ever really explored is it? Well you should explore it. Go on dates with women; or men if you prefer. But you need to move forwards. At the very least, you might meet some new people and have some fun.” 

Serena stares at him. She'd expected him to laugh at the idea. Maybe it wasn't so silly after all. “Perhaps I'll give it a try.”

“That's the spirit. Phone?” Raf holds out his hand.

“What, now?”

“No time like the present. And I'm an invalid, you have to indulge me.”

Grudgingly, Serena roots through her bag, pulls out her phone, unlocks it and hands it to Raf. 

He takes it eagerly and taps a couple of times. “I can't believe you don't have security settings on your App Store.”

Serena helps herself to another grape. “Remind me, which one of us ended up with a £250 bill from Mikey playing Angry Birds? I don't share living space with small children.” Raf grins and she watches for several minutes as he taps away at her phone. 

“Right, what do you think?” He hands the phone back to Serena and she reads through the profile he's created for her. It's not bad actually, a nice blend of factual but not particularly revealing information, together with a bit of humour. She looks at the picture he's chosen: she's smiling, holding her glass of wine and looking straight into the camera lens; Bernie took it on one of their trips to Albie’s. 

She nods to Raf. “It'll do.” 

“Good. Now, publish it. Go on- that green confirmation button in the corner.”

_Oh sod it, what harm can it do?_ She presses ‘Create profile’ before she can think better of it. It’s time to move on.


End file.
